


Remaining Light

by Elpie (Horribibble)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Cullrian Appreciation Week, Edelking Dorian, Fae & Fairies, Faerie Prince Cullen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, courting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-06-06 01:45:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6732973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Elpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s white, with a glittering gold dust upon the petals. The pistils and stamens are curved outward, and it is said to whisper words of comfort to the weary traveler.”</p><p>“Right. Whispering white flower in the middle of a pitch black forest. That’s something to go on, at least.”</p><p>She’s going to get him eaten.</p><p>-</p><p>In which Prince Cullen of Honnleath, Beloved of his People ventures into the Forbidden Forest on a quest and comes out with a rather fetching blush. </p><p>(And possibly a suitor.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Voice in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't know I was participating in Cullrian Appreciation Week until a few hours ago. 
> 
> Turns out I couldn't resist!

Far away and rather long ago, there was a splendid and prosperous kingdom, where a great many flowers bloomed under the watchful eye of the Faerie King and his fair Queen. Trade was prosperous, the people were almost deliriously happy, and the royal family was blessed with four beautiful and remarkably well-behaved children.

It was _disturbing._

Like an entire kingdom of golden retrievers.

It should not be at all possible to maintain a thriving economy when one is throwing festivals every other week. You cannot survive on cake and dancing, it’s a theoretical impossibility.

But we digress.

Once upon a time… got that.

King and Queen, alive, happy… that, too.

Ah, yes. Children.

The eldest was the lovely Princess Mia, Beloved of All Who...did they truly write this in a history book? There are four of them! There’s an entire royal lineage, they have to run out of floral epithets eventually.

Right, the eldest--Mia. A lovely young lady, exactly as blond and lovely as one might imagine considering she’s a faerie princess. Gives time to those in need, looks after her younger siblings, has supposedly never touched a drop of alcohol in her life. ...Really?

Never?

Bless her little blue-eyed heart.

Right, the next was Cullen, a proper eldest son if ever there was one. Cheekbones, shining armor, soft hair--and a nigh disturbing dedication to _honor._ I’d honor that, I can tell you.

Then there was Branson, offensively tall and built to fell trees. One might expect a third son to go out and seek his fortune, but Prince Branson was rather more content to remain in the castle village, wrestling the occasional druffalo, learning all he could from the Ministers of Trade and Agriculture, and doting incessantly upon his incredibly pregnant young wife.

The last, and youngest among the rosy-cheeked bunch, was Princess Rosalie, who at the time of our story was a teenager. One might hazard a guess. The King and Queen were awfully troubled, as their young honeysuckle had recently professed her fervent desire to become a swamp witch, like Dread Morrigan in the Forbidden Forest.

Because of _course_ they called it the Forbidden Forest. On every map and sign in the kingdom of Honnleath, the name is plain as day. Unless, of course, some charming young person has decided to deface it again.

Never mind that there’s an entire kingdom beyond the forest’s edge. Never mind that no one among this bright-eyed aristocracy could tell you _why_ the forest was Forbidden. All that mattered was that the great line of trees at the edge of the Whispering Fields began a line of impregnable and eternal Dark.

So you see, there had to be a story there, because no matter how good and prosperous these cheery faerie folk may be, _someone_ will always be drawn to anything Forbidden.

And of course it all began with some winsome girl fluttering her eyelashes.

-

Princess Mia is a proud woman, tall and regal, with kind eyes and full, red lips. All the better to pout with, really.

“Oh _please,_ Cullen,” She wheedles. “I know that this is no easy request, but I saw them in Rosie’s book, and I’ve not been able to think of a single thing else…”

“Like your groom?”

“He _understands_.”

“Then why isn’t _he_ off undertaking some perilous quest to assemble your dream bridal bouquet?”

“Cullen, we’re still in paperwork up to our _eyeballs_ to get him _legs._ If that’s not a statement of Love Beyond All Obstacles, I’ve no idea what is.”

Cullen sighs. “Mia, I’m not certain we should rely on _anything_ in Rosie’s books. I think one or two of them might actually be possessed.”

“It’s a phase.” Mia’s response is disturbingly automatic, though not quite as deadpan as it would have been coming from mother or father. ...They can hope. “ _Please,_ Cullen. If they’re anything like the illustration…”

Cullen stands still for one impossible moment, shoulders high and proud, eyes closed in contemplation. He should remain strong. Really, they had no proof that there _is_ such a flower as Love Beyond All Obstacles in the Forbidden Forest. It sounds a bit like horseshit.

The answer is no.

A strong, sensible no.

“...What does it look like?”

Mia _shrieks_ like a sprite who’s just got the hang of flight and _flings_ herself at him, thanking him in spirals of speech so enthusiastic it all blurs together. He pats her on the back gently.

When she finally draws away, it’s with the brilliant smile that everyone--including the Prince of the Mermaids himself--could never seem to resist. “It’s white, with a glittering gold dust upon the petals. The pistils and stamens are curved outward, and it is said to whisper words of comfort to the weary traveler.”

“Right. Whispering white flower in the middle of a pitch black forest. That’s something to go on, at least.”

“Take a lantern.” Mia says, reaching out to smooth his hair in a move she’s had perfected since she was six.

She’s going to get him eaten.

-

“I love my sister,” Cullen mutters, sliding over a ridiculously oversized tree root and adjusting his grip on the lantern once more. “I love my sister. I love my sister.”

He’s been at this for six hours at least, stumbling blindly through an eerie miasma of darkness in search of a bloody _white flower._ He’s fairly certain he’s been walking in circles. There have been wisps of light in the darkness here and there, but Cullen knows better than to follow them.

The cries of countless unfamiliar beasts echo in the distance, and he stumbles into _something_ that drips cold liquid down the neck of his armor. He yelps and stumbles forward, tripping over yet another root and tumbling to the forest floor with a clatter.

He takes a deep breath, bracing his gauntleted hands against the loamy earth. “ _I love my sister._ ”

“How lovely for you.”

Cullen makes a rather undignified screeching noise, and scrambles back until he hits what _has_ to be another damnable root.

Above him, several of the wisps congregate, illuminating a figure in their gentle light. A man, perhaps a bit younger than Cullen with a rather unusual moustache, smirks down at him. “Lost our way?”

The prince remains still, blinking up at the man perching on the branch as easily as he might upon a throne. “Er...sort of?”

The man shifts forward, all patronizing amusement as he tries to get a better look at the faerie prince. Something catches in Cullen’s throat when he realizes that the man isn’t partially obscured by shadow, as he’d previously thought.

He’s _wearing_ it.

“How cute.” The man remarks, as if Cullen is a particularly stupid poodle performing tricks. “If I promise not to eat you, will you explain how one becomes ‘sort of’ lost?”

“ _Eat me_?”

“I’d have to take the armor off first, of course.”

Cullen does not ‘eep.’ _Princes_ do not ‘eep.’

“Oh, don’t make that face. I was joking. You’re far too muscular for me to eat. ... _well._ ”

As cold as the liquid slicking his undershirt to his skin may be, he’s warm and flushed bright red in mere moments. “I was just looking for a damned flower.”

The strange man pauses for a moment, tapping a finger that seems to have been dipped in darkness to his lip. “We do have a few of those here. Was there a particular one you had in mind? For this sister of yours?”

“It’s...er...white flower… Love Despite--”

“Love Beyond All Obstacles?” The other man drawls, hopping from the branch to land mere feet away from Cullen. He absolutely does not inch backward.

The wisps gathered around them illuminate the clearing a bit better as the stranger regards him with an odd little smile.

“You’re familiar with it?”

“Mm,” One elegant finger _flourishes_ at the ground, and Cullen follows the motion to find...a rather depressingly squished white and gold flower. “You landed on it.”

“Oh.”

“But that’s just as well.”

“How is that ‘just as well’?! I’ve been wandering these infernal woods for _hours_ looking for the thing.”

“You _did_ say you love your sister, did you not?”

“I wouldn’t be out here if I didn’t.”

“Do you know _why_ they call it Love Beyond All Obstacles?”

“I haven’t the foggiest, actually.”

“It’s a demon flower. Resurrects dead loved ones in exchange for the souls of the living. Horrid nasty thing, but it does eat mosquitoes.”

_**Well, then.** _

“It what?”

“Eats mosquitoes?”

“ _The other thing._ ”

“Kills people.”

“ _ **That.**_ ”

“I’m not sure what else you’d like me to say.”

“You just...what...sit in the dark, waiting for people to come pick the soul-eating demon flower?”

“And mosquitoes.”

“Sir, I will _fight you._ ”

The man rolls his eyes. “If you _must_ know, I come out here to read upon occasion. And if I should warn a soul or two away from a floral demise, well, I suppose that’s not horrid.”

 _He guards the flower,_ Cullen thought. _He comes out here and guards a bloody flower._

“I suppose my thanks are in order, then.”

There’s a strange dusting of gold along the man’s cheeks for a moment and...wait, is that…? “If you must.”

“I do love my sister, I promise you, and... _Rosalie._ I _**knew**_ that book was possessed!”

“Oh, _dear._ ”

“Mia wanted to put that thing in her _bouquet_!”

“I suppose it’s rather fortuitous you’ve gone and _sat_ on it then, isn’t it?”

Cullen frowns, broken from his righteous indignation. “You startled me.”

“You want me to _apologize_ now?” The man hisses. “Are all of you Brightlanders so obtuse?”

“The what-now?”

The man wiggles his fingers as if to indicate _all_ of Cullen. “People from your side of the forest. In all that infernal Bright.”

“I’ve never heard that phrase before.”

“Of course you haven’t. You _live_ there. No idea how.”

“ _We_ find it pleasant enough. It’s certainly devoid of soul-eating flower beasts.”

“A pity.” The man sneers. “Well, then I suppose you’ll have to return empty-handed.”

“...oh.”

“...What is that? That look. What are you doing with your face right now?”

Cullen blinks at him.

“ _Stop it_. What’s wrong with your _eyes_?! Stop doing that!”

“...Disappointment?”

“If you promise to stop making that damnable face, I’ll show you where the Quiet Adoration and the Promiseblossoms grow. Would that please you?”

“The who and the what now?”

“Flowers that don’t bring back the dead.”

“Oh. What _do_ they do?” Cullen asks even as the man turns on his heel and flounces off into the greater Dark.

His guide snorts. “Smell nice. _Honestly._ Bloody Brightlanders stumbling about at night.”

-

The forest is infinitely less terrifying with his guide lighting the way, occasionally complaining at his impractical outfit or the awkward clanking sounds it makes.

“It’s blind luck you haven’t attracted an edelbeast, honestly. Making all that damnable noise.”

Cullen is reminded, rather awkwardly, of Rosalie’s adolescent whining. The comparison is oddly endearing, even as he watches the Darkling gesticulate, setting off little sparks and embers as his fingertips rake and snap in the air.

“Thank you, by the way.”

The other man pauses. “What?”

“I didn’t actually _say it_ before. So I thought I ought to. It’s kind of you to help me like this.”

For a moment, everything is quiet but for the sound of water rushing somewhere ahead, and the faint chirruping of some small creatures playing in the brush. Then…

“Dorian. My name is Dorian.” The Darkling turns his head to look back over his shoulder, and Cullen can see that faint dusting of gold along his cheeks again. “And you’re welcome.”

“Cullen.”

“You are most welcome, Cullen.”

Even in the cool dark of the Forbidden Forest, Cullen believes he is.

-

The flowers do not _just_ smell nice. Cullen could tell you that before they made it the clearing. Beyond the consuming dark of night time in the Forbidden Forest, from between the draping boughs of swaying trees, he could see the warm glow.

 Dorian parts the leaves before them, dispelling the wisps even as he’s wrapped in the light that radiates from the copper and gold blossoms blanketing the area.

“Well?” Dorian nods toward the expanse of them, and Cullen takes a step forward. The field is bordered on the far side by a small creak and another stand of willow trees. It’s like standing in a field of stars, the glittering dust rising in the air.

He walks almost reverently into the edge of the blooms and kneels to gently pluck a silvery specimen from the earth. He gets a face full of that same dust for his trouble, and begins to sneeze.

He coughs up a bit of the shining stuff and squints accusingly up at Dorian, who stands just a few paces away, trying to smother a laugh with tears in his eyes.

“ _Tell me_ this isn’t some terrible contagion.” He grits.

“Oh, no. No. That was just the one, I assure you.”

“Then _this_ is?”

“Glitter.”

( Well, where did you _think_ glitter came from? )

“That tells me _nothing._ ”

“It’s harmless. You’ll sparkle for a bit. Honestly, with your pale skin and strong cheekbones, it can only add a bit of mystery.” Dorian smiles and closes the distance between them before bending at the waist. His fingers, coated in shadow as they may be, are gentle and warm as they swipe a bit of the offending glitter from his skin. “There, just as handsome as ever.”

“I…er…”

“I suppose this makes you a knight in _sparkling_ armor, doesn’t it?”

“You’re _horrendous._ ”

“Excuse you. I’ll have you know that I’m considered roguishly handsome, if not frighteningly beautiful.”

“Pffft.”

Dorian pinches his cheek and once more Cullen falls on his backside, laughing helplessly.

“There’s a _trick_ to it, you insufferable man. Watch me.”

Cullen certainly isn’t inclined to object.

-

It doesn’t take them long to gather up a decadent bouquet of silvery Quiet Adoration and rich copper Promiseblossoms. Tucked in the crook of Dorian’s arm, the sight of them is absolutely striking, as if the shadows draped across his form are shielding the blooms in a separate galaxy.

Still, Dorian curls his lip in dissatisfaction. “You came here looking for Love Beyond All Obstacles.”

“I did.” Cullen nods, scratching at the back of his neck. Honestly, it’s a bit embarrassing that he caved so easily to his sister’s needling. “More fool me.”

“Not a fool.” Dorian frowns. “They were for your sister. Why in the world would she want such a blossom?”

“She’s to be married tomorrow.”

“Is she?” That wicked little smile is back, and Cullen feels an odd swooping sensation in his belly. “It would be a shame to send you back without a truly special centerpiece, don’t you think?”

“Please don’t put yourself out for us. These alone are like nothing I’ve ever seen. She’ll love them.”

The other man makes a dismissive motion with his free hand that quickly shifts into a series of languid sigils, marking the air in glowing whorls of fire. The marks begin to coalesce, the glow of them pulsing brightly in the even light of the field.

As he finishes, he holds his palm flat to accept the result: a great flower with smoky purple petals accented with glowing purple veins. In the center, curling out and under in mesmerizing spirals, the stamens and pistils seem to be formed from pulsing embers.

“This is…”

“An Edelbloom,” Dorian drawls, settling the flower neatly in the center of the otherworldly bouquet. “You might read about it in your young Rosalie’s book.”

If Cullen survives the attempt to get it from her, he certainly will.

-

Dorian accompanies him as far as he is able, and directs him to the forest’s edge with another bobbing wisp to guide his steps.

The ambient noise of the forest’s creatures are no longer an eerie threat as they drift by his ear. Free to smile and blush as a small child might, Cullen ducks his head to take in the scent of the glimmering flowers cradles in his arm.

He is glad he came.

Even as the first light of dawn melts like wax across the sky, he deposits the magnificent bouquet with his sister’s handmaidens. He draws away to strip off his armor and crawl into the soft furs and warm blankets covering his bed.

Even when Branson comes to pound at his door a mere three hours later, Cullen cannot bring himself to feel any semblance of exhaustion. As if he has been on some marvelous adventure.

When Mia makes her appearance in the grand hall, resplendent in white lace and silk, her bouquet illuminating her loving eyes and joyful smile, Rosalie draws in a shaking breath and tugs at his jacket.

“Cullen,” She hisses with an excitement he hasn’t heard from her in _months._ “Cullen, that’s an Edelbloom.”

“I know.” He grins. “I found it for her.”

“You _found_ an Edelbloom?”

“Is that so strange?”

“ _Did you knock him out!?_ ”

“Knock _who_ out?”

“ _Maker,_ you’re an idiot. We’re all bloody in for it. I didn’t figure _you’d_ go out stealing sacred flowers.”

“It’s sacred? But Dorian _gave_ it to me.”

“Dorian.”

“From the forest.”

“King Dorian of the Edelwood.”

Cullen stares at her, and her thunderous expression darkens into that same sadistic amusement they’ve all come to expect from the world’s angriest teenage princess.

“You made _cow eyes_ at the Edelking.”

“I _did not_ make cow eyes at _anyone_.”

“Whatever.” She says, and turns to face forward. “Shut up. The ceremony’s starting.”

The Revered Mother smiles out upon the congregation, waiting for the excited rustling of wings and fabric to come to a lulling hush. Cullen feels rather like he’s been smacked in the gut with one of the golden candelabrum lining the aisle.

-

When he returns to his rooms that evening, there’s another Edelbloom on his pillow.  

 


	2. A Tiger on the Mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen hasn't learned his lesson about quests yet. 
> 
> Dorian, as always, aims to please.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we have Day 2: On the Battlefield.
> 
> I'm hoping to write and post a chapter every day of the challenge!  
>  _Pray for my soul, friends._
> 
> The rating begins to increase this chapter. Isn't this exciting? O u O

One might expect such a bright young man, blessed with many a knowledgeable tutor and a sizeable royal library to consult as he pleases, to have an ounce of common sense. One might also have learned one’s lesson by now, don’t you think?

Among the faerie folk, you see, this courting business is nothing to be taken lying down. Not until much later, at least. And preferably not exclusively. That’s just an utter waste of any _number_ of perfectly serviceable surfaces.

But we _are_ discussing Brightlanders here, and they do so love their emotional ballads and epic quests. So rather than return to the forest himself or send a polite thank you note, our intrepid prince here decided to fetch a return gift.

...Does no one just send chocolates anymore?

-

Dorian gives the faerie prince a week—a full _week—_ to give some indication that his gift had been well-received. Or received at all. But there is nothing.

Not a hint of pretty golden eyes or improbably well-polished armor.

At first, the Edelking is hurt, then sullen, then offended.

One doesn’t simply _ignore_ such a precious gift, after all. The least he could have done was _return_ the thing with a curt, “No thank you, I’m not interested in devastatingly handsome shadow kings.”

Easy as that!

Dorian would have understood.

(He’d have moped for an _age_ , really, but eventually, with a great deal of wine in his bloodstream and a strapping warrior to drape himself on, he would have understood.)

And he wouldn’t have bundled himself off into the Whisper to give the man a stern talking to. Only—and this is a bit embarrassing, isn’t it?—Cullen isn’t home.

His younger sister is, however. Dorian shivers a bit when he comes across the girl reading her tomes by candlelight, the frilly pillows and stuffed toys of her youth haphazardly covered with astral charts and candle wax.

She reminds him rather unnervingly of a younger, perkier Morrigan.

“Is that a fetal pig?” He asks, examining a jar with trepidation.

“It’s made of fondant,” The princess snorts. “They won’t let me keep a real one.”

 _Bless them,_ Dorian thinks. “More’s the pity.”

“Are you really him?”

“Him who, my dear?”

“The _Edelking_. The Dread Prince. Lover of the Flame, Beloved of the Dead and Damned.”

“Gesundheit,” he says.

She frowns at him.

“You might also call me Dorian.”

That gets him a little smile. “Are you here for Cullen, then?”

“Yes, actually. You see, he’s gone a bit without responding to a certain message of mine, and I thought I might investigate as to _why._ ” He huffs softly, examining his fingernails—as if they’re discernible from the twisting shadows cradling his hands. A whim, this is. Nothing more.

He just wants to _talk._

Loudly.

With a bit of pyrotechnics, perhaps.

At that, Princess Rosalie the Dark and Tormented is positively _giddy._ “You just missed him.” She chirps. “By about a week.”

“Bollocks.”

-

For three days and three nights, Cullen traveled to the peaks of Thaevia in search of the Tiger’s Eye of Umbras.

(Because princes never do anything by halves in this kingdom.)

Now here he stands upon the snowy peaks, sniffling like a child and pawing uselessly at his reddened nose. “Nothing for it, I suppose,” he says, and makes his way to the grand marble steps of the Tiger’s Lair.

Before he has a chance to knock on the towering golden doors, they swing open before him, beckoning him into the warmth of a hall decked in brilliant reds and golds. The smell of incense is thick and cloying in the air, and he sneezes again as his booted feet clank and thud against the thick carpets cast over the stone.

The hall ends at a dais, decorated with still more expensive carpets and decorative pillows, the lady of the estate lounges like a cat, her crimson red hair arranged artfully about her as she watches his approach.

Her eyes are nearly _glowing_ in the effulgent hall, and Cullen shifts from foot to foot.

“Er...hello?”

The woman’s smile nearly bisects her face, and Cullen _does not squirm_ because he is not some cowering youth. He does, however, clear his throat awkwardly.

“How can _we_ help _you,_ sweet prince?” The woman purrs.

“I was looking for something, actually. The Tiger’s Eye of Umbras. Which is supposed to be here? Did I get the wrong temple?”

“No, my dear. You have the correct temple.”

“Ah. Good.”

“And we do, in fact, possess the eye.”

“...”

“...”

“...yes…?”

“If you _want_ it, we’re afraid you’ll have to _do_ a few things for us.”

“Oh. Actually, you see, I was hoping to use it as a...a courting gift, if you will. Which might be cheapened a bit if I...how do I…”

“Fuck your way to it?”

“That.”

“What a shame.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Still, there are _tasks_ that we could stand to have completed by a strapping young prince. We so rarely receive company. Will you not be persuaded to complete them shirtless?”

“No, ma’am.”

The lady heaves an impressive sigh and props herself up, breasts somehow _bouncing_ with the movement. She grins at him as he squirms. “We do love a virgin.”

Cullen does not pout. Instead, he clasps his arms behind his back and awaits her orders.

“You will begin by bringing me one of the Raptor’s eggs.”

“I’m sorry, _raptor?_ ”

“It’s a _bird_ , boy. Do be quick about it. We are so _very_ hungry.”

-

Has anyone ever noticed that evil never seems to _sit up straight?_

**You’re one to judge, huh?**

Hush.

-

Three seemingly poetic and actually _completely miserable_ tasks later, Cullen returns to the temple hall scratched, singed, and uncomfortably damp from his tasks. He has spent _another week_ on this ridiculous gibberish, and chivalry or not, if the lady asks him to bring back so much as a roll of _toilet tissue_ , he is going to _scream._

Before the great dais, he gives a heavy grunt and pries an agitated, clingy grindylow from his armor, carefully avoiding the tentacles. “Are we quite finished? I can’t imagine what you _want_ with these things. The Raptors are vicious and the piffles won’t _shut up._ ”

The grindylow folds up one long, bony finger in an incredibly rude gesture before fumbling its way to the lady’s side, where it chirps and settles in nicely.

Cullen resists the urge to return the finger.

 _A prince is noble, kind and true._ His mother’s voice reminds him. _And he must not stick anything out._

“You’ve done marvelously so far, sweet prince, and we do _so_ appreciate such feats of strength.”

“You’re uh...welcome, I suppose.”

“Such a strong, young specimen.”

“Erm…?”

“With just the right amount of meat on its bones.”

“...Oh, hell.”

Cullen barely has time to process the shift from nude redhead to _massive hungry tiger_ as the beast surges from the platform and leaps at his face.

Only to be smacked to the ground rather unceremoniously, perhaps a foot from her prize. She yowls at the pain, recoiling as Dorian shakes a rather large, ornately carved stick in her direction.

(A _staff_ , goodness. Plays with bloody swords all day and can’t recognize a _staff._ )

“Wretched thing!” The tiger hisses. “Mind your own. I am _hungry._ ”

“Oh, it’s ‘I’ now.” Cullen grumbles. “Fucking picky tiger.”

“Hush now, dear. The grown ups are talking.”

Cullen would dearly love to scowl at him, but the hood drawn over the Edelking's face likely obscures his vision. It does not, however, seem to hide him from the tiger. 

“Leave this place, tarsoul filth.”

“ _Tarsoul_? You think I’m—what? Some demon to be banished?”

“There are shadows on your skin, vain thing. You decorate yourself with shining things, but nothing glitters in the dark. Monster boy, go away and preen some more.”

“ _Monster_ , she says. Like _I’m_ the one bloody eating people!” He gives her another crack on the skull, and she roars at him, skulking backwards, presumably to regroup.

“What in the blue Brightland sky _possessed_ you to hike out to a cursed temple for a fortnight?!”

“All right, I’ll have you know that no one mentioned it was _cursed_.”

“Why else would they put a _temple_ in the middle of the _mountains_?!”

“I...well, monks seem to like it well enough.”

The tiger makes a lunge forward, and Dorian flicks his wrist, producing a gout of flame to prevent her. “Stay. Good kitty.”

An angry hiss.

“And furthermore!” Cullen puffs up for a moment before deflating completely. “I wanted to get you a proper gift.”

For a moment Dorian is still and quiet. Well, aside from siccing a small, angry skeleton of what looks like a half monkey half penguin creature on the tiger. The sounds _both_ creatures make are entirely unsettling.

But Dorian smiles. “I gave you a _flower_ , you twit. I think there are a few steps between first meeting and epic quest, don’t you?”

“It was a very nice flower. Sacred, Rosie said.”

“I can conjure thousands of them. You’ve only got the one set of innards, and I like them where they are.”

“Thank you.”

“You dunce.”

“And there we are again with the insults.”

“I say these things out of...tolerance.”

“Lo, my heart is struck.” Cullen grumbles. “However shall I stand against such high praise and heady romance.”

“You should probably pay a bit more attention to the tiger.”

“Ugh!”

“ _Or…_ ”

“Or what?”

“You _did_ want to get me a gift.”

“Dorian…?”

“Cats do see rather well in the dark.”

“You can’t be serious.”

Dorian is absolutely serious. With an arch wave of his hand, the tiger is promptly levitated and shrunk down to the size of a _kitten._ A very angry, put out kitten that immediately runs to attack Cullen’s armored foot.

“ _Maker_ ,” He says. “But it’s hardly as if I _got_ her for you.”

“It will be,” Dorian smiles. “Once you’ve carried her back to the Edelwood. Safe journey, dearest prince.”

“ _What?!”_ Cullen _shrieks_ as he looks up from the irate demon cat and finds himself alone once more.

Well, if we’re not counting the put-out grindylow.

-

And so, Cullen Rutherford emerges from another epic quest, again with a blush.

And a cat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no guesses on the narrator?
> 
> :)


	3. A Fallen Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is danger even in the best of intentions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's gotten a bit late here, and the events that were meant to fit into this chapter are a bit big for it, so they'll be part of tomorrow's update. If there are any errors, I apologize and will fix them. 
> 
> Also please note that I'm rearranging the day prompts. 
> 
> This is the first part of "In sickness and in health."

There comes a point in every tale such as this in which the poor fools involved become disgustingly and vocally _besotted_. There is swaying and sighing, and a great deal of poetic metaphor.

 _Ay_ , says she, _indeed no food ever did seem as sweet as the sight of my ain true love. I should need no sustenance but that._

 _Oh_ , says he, _The Maker’s own ambrosial nectars, poured by none but glorious Andraste herself could ever taste so fine as the knowledge that She has touched my hand with hers._

And yet somehow they manage to stuff their happy little faces and survive to harass all with the misfortune to hear them. This is most common in teenagers, but none are ever _truly_ exempt.

So the world goes on, a bit rosier at the edges, for those in love as they verbally _swoon_ at any who would willingly (or reluctantly) listen.

This is...not always fortunate.

-

For days, the elder Prince of Honnleath is impossible to converse with on any matter of consequence. He smiles at the slightest hint of shadows playing on the walls, and postpones a conversation with his father’s Champion, Cassandra, to scratch one of the castle mousers behind the ears. One of the nearby guards had nearly squeaked when she smiled and gave in to _teasing_ the man.

Branson and Rosalie made a game of taunting their brother doubly without Mia present to box their ears or call them children, though Rosie at least took the opportunity to wheedle any tidbits of information she could from the beaming warrior.

Even the staff would smile and chuckle fondly as the prince lost himself in daydreams, helpfully reminding him of meals and appointments, and assuring that he remembered to remove his boots before bed.

Failing that, Agnes and Gerta, ever loyal, could be counted upon to tug them off for him.

But as this knowledge swept the castle, so too did it reach the ears of the King and Queen, who were of course concerned. Bad enough that their elder son had ventured into the Forbidden Forest for some silly whim of his sister’s. Now he wanted to _return_ in order to court some dark denizen among the trees.

The royal couple spent days on end in deep conference regarding what was to be done, in hushed whispers and grave tones, until finally they found themselves content.

And Cullen received an invitation to tea in his mother’s conservatory.

-

“ _Go and catch a falling star,_  
_Get with child a mandrake root,_  
_Tell me where all past years are,_  
_Or who cleft the devil's foot_.”

“Really, mother?”

Queen Adelaide stands in a beam of brilliant sunlight, idly fussing over a few of her roses in order to seem artfully preoccupied when her son joins her. She doesn’t pause for a moment in her singing, and Cullen sighs, resigned to listening to yet another thinly veiled musical criticism.

At least she takes the time for them.

“ _Teach me to hear mermaids singing,_  
_Or to keep off envy's stinging,_  
_And find_  
_What wind_  
_Serves to advance an honest mind.”_

“Can’t we just have a normal conversation? If something troubles you…”

One of the pudgy birds that so loves to accompany her every aria and pluck seed from her bare hand chirrs at him as if insisting he shut up immediately.

“ _If thou be'st born to strange sights,_  
Things invisible to see,  
_Ride ten thousand days and nights,_  
_Till age snow white hairs on thee,_ ”

“Ah.”

“ _Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,_  
_All strange wonders that befell thee,_  
_And swear,_ No where  
_Lives a woman true, and fair.”_

“Well, it’s not a woman.”

“ _If thou find'st one, let me know,_  
_Such a pilgrimage_ were _sweet;_  
_Yet do not, I would not go,_  
_Though at next door we might meet;_  
_Though she were true, when you met her,_  
_And last, till you write your letter,_  
_Yet she_  
_Will be_  
_False, ere I come, to two, or three.”_

“Thank you ever so much for the vote of confidence, mother.”

“You do understand my meaning?”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“Don’t be smart, Cullen.”

“If I _were_ smart, I’d have found a way out of this conversation.”

“Ah, young love is always willful. But you must listen to me, my darling son.”

 _Listen or obey?_ Cullen thinks, because he is bound to one and disinclined to the other.

“It comes to my attention that this sweetheart of yours comes from the Forbidden Forest, Cullen, and that you would venture again to meet them.”

“I would.”

“I pray that you do not.”

 _You might pray harder_ , He does not say. _Because the sky is clear with no signs of lightning, and still I plan to go._

“There’s really nothing to worry about, mother.”

“And still I worry. This pesky motherhood. Whenever will it fade away?” She softens a bit, reaching out to cup his cheeks. “You know that I love you. And that is why I so wish to warn you away, my love. Only carnivorous flowers bloom in the dark.”

“Dorian’s not a flower, mum.”

“ _Dorian?_ ”

“Er…”

“The king of those dark woods?!”

“He’s not _bad_ , mum! He just...lives somewhere different.”

“In the eternal Dark, Cullen! Such things live there as ought never to be spoken of!” She takes a deep breath, and for one horrifying moment, Cullen thinks he’ll have to sit through an entire _concert._ But her hands fall to his collar, and she straightens it delicately. “But you love him, I see. I know that stubborn look in your eye.”

“Why, when your father was your age…”

“ _Mum.”_

“Youth is so impatient. Always dashing off after the first blush of the rose. But you’ll learn in time.” She sighs. “Have you given him a proper gift?”

“I...er...there may have been a cat?”

“A cat.” Her hands fall away completely, and make their way to her hips. “My son gave his sweetheart a cat.”

“It was his idea!”

“His-- _ **Cullen Stanton Rutherford!**_ ”

Deep under the skin, his very _soul_ quakes at the sound of his true name.

“A _cat!_ ”

“He liked her well enough. He smiled and everything. I thought it had been worth the trip.” His cheeks turn a bright and burning red, and his mother seems...stricken. Almost sad.

She reaches up again to brush his cheek, as if wiping away a tear, and something in his stomach feels sore for her. “You really do…?”

“I do. I really do.”

“Oh, my dear.”

“He’s wonderful, mother. You’d adore him. Even _father_ would adore him!”

“I’m sure _I_ would, my darling…” She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath again, retreating from him. “Perhaps...you ought to give such a singular man a proper gift.”

The box she hands him is gorgeous, ornately detailed in floral patterns—because of course it is—with golden inlay against the warmly stained wood. As he takes it from her, she places a gentle hand over his larger one.

“I do love you, you know.”

“Of course, mum. I know you mean well.”

“Even if it doesn’t always work out.”

“Please don’t sing, mum.”

“No, I don’t imagine you’d want to hear it, dear.”

“What is it, exactly, that I’m meant to give him?”

“A star.”

-

 _A star_ , Cullen thinks, with a surge of excitement. He presses on through the brush at the edge of the forest, and his heart swells again at the sight of a wisp, bobbing patiently just ahead. As he approaches, the light shivers excitedly, and does a quick lap around his head before bouncing along further into the dark.

Dorian meets him in the field beyond the willows, where they gathered flowers for Mia’s bouquet. He’s perched on a fallen tree, trying to look nonchalant, but Cullen can see him peeking over the page.

“Been waiting long?”

“Not at all.”

“Good book?”

“Dreadfully dull.”

“Then you don’t mind my interrupting?”

“ _You?_ Interrupt? _Never_.”

“I brought you a gift.”

Dorian tenses up a bit, fingers tightening on the spine of his book. “Oh, dear. Not again.”

“I didn’t go on any quests this time!”

“You’re certain? No nasty scrapes or singe marks on that pretty hide?”

“I am singe, scorch, sting, _and_ scrape free.”

“Remarkable.”

“I don’t _have_ to hand this over.”

“Nonsense! It’s for me, isn’t it?”

“I thought so. I’m excited to see what you think of it.”

“Well, then hand it over! Goodness. No one likes a lecture.”

“What about a full bloody concert?”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. Here.”

Dorian takes the box from him with telling care, and Cullen can feel his grip shaking a bit as he pulls it into his lap. He’s trying not to smile, Cullen knows.

But then Dorian opens the box.

-

What followed, then, was very nearly a disaster. Because cruelty and malevolence are not always born out of ill intent, but out of love, care, and the simple desire to please.

Misunderstandings are the root of all heartache, remember.

Yet still we do our best.

-

As the lid falls away, a glorious light pulses from the confines of the box. Cullen’s breath leaves him in a sudden rush at the unearthly light, stolen away by the beauty of it all. The clearing lights up with pure silver and—

Dorian does not scream.

The word is insufficient.

The noise that comes from the man is deeper, harsher. As if some Thing rends its way from his gut, up through his chest and throat, sharp edges tearing flesh and dragging blood along in its wake as it spills into once-pure air.  

He falls to the ground, and the box turns over, shuttering the star’s light and plunging them into the wisp’s soft dim, which has begun to flicker.

“No,” Cullen whispers. He falls to his knees at the other man’s side, reaching out to touch, to seek out what’s wrong with his hands, but Dorian bats them away, still crying out in pain.

Pink, frothing spit spills from his lips as he writhes, covering his eyes with hands that seem all too much like claws.

“Dorian! Dorian, what happened?!”

“ _ **You!**_ ”

“What?!”

“ _Selfish_ child! I would move the stars for you, and this—you show me _this!_ ”

“Dorian, please, I don’t understand!”

“‘ _I don’t understand!_ ’” Dorian mocks him. “Of course you don’t. _None of you do._ You come into the Dark like some grand savior, trampling things you cannot understand or see in your path.” He pauses to draw a rattling breath. “But you have been raised in the bright and warm, and so you cannot comprehend how anyone could feel differently. And now you come into the Dark as if you come bearing a gift, illuminating these _dim, evil_ places.”

“Dorian, no…”

“And now I can see nothing.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Was this not your aim?”

“I didn’t know.”

“Liar.”

“I didn’t know. I had thought to make you something myself, but my mother said… My mother.”

Dorian’s voice quiets to a rasping whisper, impossibly damaged in the quiet of the field. “You should return to her.”

“I will not.”

“You do not owe me anything. I will not accept it.”

“The sun does not lend light to the moon in expectation of any favor.”

“That’s a horrible metaphor.”

“I don’t think it is.”

“Horrible?”

“A metaphor.”

“Are you _mocking_ me?!”

“No. I’m going to pick you up.”

“Void take it, you are not!”

“It’s that or I carry you on my back.”

“Like a child!”

“Or someone in need of aid.”

“You cannot imagine how I hate you at this very moment, wretch!”

“Then kick me and tear at me all you like. I’m going to take you somewhere safe.” Cullen grunts softly as he levers Dorian onto his back, adjusting him with an unceremonious bounce even as warm arms clutch at him for reassurance.

“‘Somewhere safe,’ he says. As if you have any idea where we are.”

“Then I suppose it’s a case of the blind leading the blind.”

“...”

“I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”

“Gods above.”

“I love you, by the way.”

“The wisp,” Dorian chokes. “Follow the bloody wisp.”

-

For what must be the seventh time, Cullen hears the sound of something scraping in the darkness and goes completely still.

Dorian takes the opportunity to nudge at him with his knees, not the least bit gentle. “Come now, are you truly so frightened of the dark? You, the one who can _see._ ”

“It’s not the dark I’m worried about. It’s the things that are in it. Carrying you like this, I’m in no position to keep you safe if something comes at us.”

“You worry for me.”

“Of course I do.”

“There’s no need to. This place is mine.”

“I gathered that much, but it doesn’t stop me. I’m a horrible overthinker.”

Dorian chuckles, a deep, throaty sound, and drawls beside his ear. “ _The woods are lovely, dark and deep.”_

“ _But I have promises to keep,_ ” Cullen answers, his grip tightening under Dorian’s thighs. “ _And miles to go before I sleep._ ”

-

The wisp leads them to what seems to be a cave mouth, carved into simple, pleasant designs. The passage beyond glows with torch light, and the path seems to slope downward into the earth.

Cullen shifts Dorian’s weight against his back and calls, “Hello? Is anyone home?”

The wisp gives a sudden jitter and darts straight for a curving tree beside the cave’s entrance, bumping up against the bark in quick, agitated bursts. Soon enough, a sigh breezes through the strange berry bushes around the rocky area, and the bark seems to ripple.

The air seems to shimmer and haze as the wisp draws back, allowing the nymph room to separate herself from her resting place, blue moss forming an elegant gown over pale skin. “What is it, then, so late at night?” Her voice is hoarse with sleep, but still a humming, musical sound. As if she is always teasing.

“Mae,” Dorian calls, “I’m afraid I need your help again.”

The woman stiffens, eyes drawn to where Dorian is cradled against Cullen’s back. She takes in the burnt skin around his eyes, the tears and shadows that streak across his face, and the answering expression on her face reminds Cullen of…

Not of his mother. He won’t think of his mother.

Instead, he recalls Mia’s hands, brushing him off and putting him back together after a fall.

“Of course I will give it.” She says, coming close to lay a hand upon Dorian’s arm where it winds about Cullen’s shoulder. “What trouble have you gotten into now, my friend?”

“A certain _prince_ thought to _blind_ me with a star.”

“It was meant as a gift.” Cullen says, then shakes his head. “It’s no excuse. Please, how do I help him?”

“Follow me, silly boy.” She reaches up to flick a bit of hair from Cullen’s eyes. “We’ll teach you yet.”

She turns away, gliding towards the mouth of the cave, and Cullen can hear her muttering. “A star. _Honestly_?”

-

A smiling dwarven man greets them at the bottom of the stairs, and Mae bends to kiss his cheek. “Our Dorian is ill, darling.”

“Bright sickness?”

“So it seems.”

“I have balm in with the last bit of cargo. Let me fetch it for you, my love.”

Cullen glances around awkwardly, taking in a cozy home that seems to have been carved from the earth itself. The dwarven man—for what else could this man be?—strides off into another room to retrieve medicine while the nymph leads them into a guest room and turns down the bedclothes so that Dorian might be deposited upon it.

Cullen is careful to pull the covers up around him, despite Dorian’s grumbling, and settles himself rather uncomfortably beside the bed. He glances back to the door, anxiously awaiting the dwarf’s return.

“Thorold will be rummaging for a bit, I imagine. Now’s your chance to tell me a story before I claw those pretty eyes out.”

Obediently, Cullen does.

-

They’re to stay with Maevaris and Thorold for a few days, at least.

Mae insists that she see improvement before accompanying them to Dorian’s own home, which is apparently deeper still into the Edelwood.

Thorold returns to them with a rack for Cullen’s weapons and armor as well as the balm for Dorian eyes and face, and his voice is a reassuring rumble as he coaches the faerie prince through applying it properly.

The weight of the dwarf’s hand on his shoulder releases some of the tension held there, but it is still a long while before Cullen feels comfortable sliding into the bed beside Dorian. It must be close to dawn back home.

He sighs deeply, watching the rise and fall of the other man’s chest, and recalls the horrid sound of his screams. He aches, as if a hole is being hollowed in his belly, and feels something catch in his chest.

“My ignorance did this.” He whispers into the dim, glancing at the wisp as it flickers softly in its lantern. Dorian’s concession to his comfort, even after...

“I spoke in anger, before.” Dorian mumbles.

“No, please. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Yet here I am, awake. You aren’t robbing me of rest, Cullen. Mae will make sure of that in the coming days.”

“As will I. I shall do whatever it takes to make you better.”

“A handsome promise from a handsome man.”

“Don’t joke. I...this is unforgivable.”

“It isn’t. You were fooled, weren’t you? By someone you trusted.”

“So were you.”

“No. You haven’t lied to me yet. Unless you don’t love me, after all.”

“I could never lie about that. I swear it to you, now. I’ll stay by your side until death, if I have to. I’ll make up for this. I’ll climb—”

“Oh, don’t start that again. I don’t think my heart could take it.”

“I just meant…”

“You’ll stay here with me instead.”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Dorian’s smile is a slash of light in the darkness. “Apart from this setback, I do rather enjoy this being loved business.”

Cullen presses his lips to the other man’s shoulder. He can’t yet bring himself to laugh.

-

“You are a horrible busy-body, and I hate you.” Dorian growls as Cullen tucks the covers around him once more. It has been three days of applying balm to the damaged skin around his eyes, three days of Cullen and Maevaris and Thorold all fussing over him like a child.

 _Three days_ of being coddled like a youngling even as he sleeps scant _inches_ from a muscular blond faerie prince with abs you could play tic-tac-toe on.

The only thing that keeps him from _biting_ is the sweep of Cullen’s broad, calloused palms and careful fingers over his skin. And the way he calls him _love_ , so quietly in the dark beyond his eyelids.

He wants to see the man’s lips form around it, but he cannot. Not yet.

Still, the sound of his voice is a comfort.

So as he gripes and groans over Maevaris’ fussing with the blankets and Thorold’s cheery, “Don’t let the Deepstalkers bite!”, he counts the moments until the door shuts.

And then he sighs, once again.

“Tell me a story?”

And once again, Cullen does.

-

Like this, they continue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poems quoted were John Donne's _Go and catch a falling star_ and Robert Frost's _"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"._


	4. Beneath and Above

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The path to recovery is best walked with a helping hand. 
> 
> And perhaps a few tankards of ale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, follow me here. 
> 
> For the purpose of this story, I've rearranged the prompt days. 
> 
> But I've yetched up a bit. This is effectively part two of "In Sickness and In Health", whereas four was originally intended to be "In the bedroom."
> 
> Which means that the chapter that should be published later today _will_ be "in the bedroom." Unless it's "in the bedroom"/"loss and corruption" which...sounds kind of horrifying.

What followed was roughly a week of synchronized pouting from two grown men that would have irritated a saint. Once assured that the balm was working—if slowly—the faerie prince agreed to support the Edelking for walks about the Under, visiting with many of her residents.

Thus began the celebrations. You see, in dwarven culture, there is often very little _reason_ needed to celebrate, and as far as anyone there was concerned, cheering up a pair of moping royals was more than good enough.

Great bonfires were lit in the caverns, casks of ale were broken open, and youths danced and caroused as others told stories. There will _always_ be stories.

But regardless of what came to pass at these celebrations, Cullen never strayed far from Dorian’s side. He was quick to befriend a number of the locals, and listened eagerly to tales of endurance and bravery even as he kept a steady eye on his counterpart.

He had worried, besotted thing that he was, that he might never be forgiven.

This could not be farther from the truth.

Love tends to make us generous, even if we’re sneaky about it.

-

Cullen presses a large mug of something warm and fruity between Dorian’s palms and settles in close, eyes intent on the frown on the other man’s face. “Shall I fetch you something else?”

“Ah. No, cider will be fine.”

“Do your eyes hurt you?”

“A little, but only because they are healing. I can see shapes in the dark. Not _well_ , mind you, but I know that someone in that general direction is either dancing or flailing in agony.”

Cullen glances toward young Rhuma and snorts in a most unprincely manner. “I can’t tell so well, and my eyes are just fine.”

“Better than fine,” Dorian smiles. “You’re adjusting. Remarkably well. If we’re not careful, they may make you an honorary dwarf.”

“Nonsense.”

“No, no. Just start embellishing, little by little, each time they make you recount your quests. Oghren’s made an art out of it. And of drinking. You’ll have to be contented with half of his prowess. I shall never kiss you if you taste of paint thinner.”

“I would count myself lucky to be kissed at all.”

Dorian sighs, and there’s a moment of quiet. Cullen looks away, watching as Maevaris feigns reluctance before allowing Thorold to pull her into the dancing.

“Do you need to hear me say that I forgive you? Because I do.”

More silence.

“You’ll have to give me a verbal cue here, I’m afraid.”

“I’m smiling.”

“Yes, and?”

“I’m...er...relieved?”

“But you’re not kissing me.”

“Oh.”

“I find this problematic.”

Cullen’s first attempt at kissing Dorian results in a rather awkward collision of noses and yet more apologies. He sputters for a moment or two before the Darkling reaches out, grasps him by the back of the neck, and brings him in for a proper kiss.

A cheer goes up from the assembly, and Maevaris lets out an air-splitting whistle. “Someone break open another cask! He’s found his ass without a map!”

Cullen is too busy thoroughly enjoying himself to argue.

-

Another week gone finds Dorian’s vision steadily improving. Shapes have become clearer, and he is able to identify Cullen’s hands, when they come to brush against his hair and his face when he leans in for a kiss.

He is eager to meet his eyes again, but for now he is contented with the sight of the man gesticulating wildly as he trades insults with Oghren (spirits help them all) and takes part in the evening’s storytelling.

Cullen has since traded in the reflective Brightlander armor for the soft cloth and leathers preferred by the dwarves. It makes him far more pleasant to embrace, and the children have finally stopped calling him Suncatcher.

Dorian allows himself to drift to the pleasant sounds of talk and laughter, and the sight of Cullen performing by the fire, right up until someone strikes up the music again. The shape draws closer, and Dorian can feel himself being drawn up into strong arms.

“You must be joking.”

“I promise not to step on your feet.”

“This is a horrible idea.”

“Mae told me it might be good for you.”

“Mae is a filthy liar and I am entirely against this idea.”

“Then why are you smiling?”

There’s a soft noise, growing more insistent. A clearing of the throat that becomes an uncomfortable cough. “Beg pardon.”

Both of them grow still, and Cullen looks over their new companion. Out of recent reflex, he describes, “Closely cropped hair, dark. Deep-set eyes. He looks...er...ill?”

“Felix,” Dorian says. “He’s a friend. Allergic to _everything_.”

“Not _everything._ I really enjoy sweets. Do you have any?”

“I’ll go wheedle some from the children. Give you a chance to talk.”

Dorian listens to the sound of Cullen’s retreating footsteps, and purses his lips at the sound of Felix chuckling. “You’re pouting, did you know?”

“I do not pout.”

“You don’t really dance, either.”

“I could be tempted.”

…

“You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?”

“I’m laughing _for_ you. There’s a difference. Still…”

“Duty calls?”

“Loudly. Lady Vivienne found out about your eyes, and she wants to pay a visit to Tenebris. She says she means to give you a good talking to, but she’s gathering up a great deal of herbal medicines.”

“Soon she’ll be driving Morrigan mad.” Dorian grins.

“That may be entertaining for you, but it’s horrid for the rest of us. No one _benefits_ when an Elder Wyrm and a Grand Lucent start a pissing contest.”

“Better I should go let them fight for the right to feed me horrid tasting medicines.”

“I suppose we’d best make our way to the Grand Tree.”

“That or let them kill each other.”

“...”

“I was _joking._ ”

-

If Cullen had thought the thaig had been impressive, an entire _network_ of homes carved from the very stone Beneath, he is outright stricken at the sight of Tenebris. The trees are ancient, arching into and cradling various structures from homes, to gathering places, to one particularly impressive treetop plaza that Dorian insists is a library.

There are so _many,_ roots and branches forming pathways that lead hither and yon beneath the twinkling lights scattered throughout the forest canopy like some thousand gentle stars.

Where the perimeter of the Edelwood had been black as pitch for the most part, here various vines and plants appear to be bioluminescent, visited by pixies and wisps, all glowing in shades of blue-silver and comforting copper-gold.

“The wood protects us,” Dorian tells him. “She is our shield.”

Cullen feels he has begun to understand.

Here and there, people go about their daily lives, laughing and thriving in the shaded city. They pass one grand square where the roots lead up to a fountain, where several children play in the water. Nearby, a group of men and women bend their heads together over tankards of ale, presided over by a one-eyed qunari who has apparently been conned into playing fetch with one of the children.

As they pass by, Cullen swears the kossith _winks_ at him.

Eventually, they come to a great lake in the center of it all, where lights skip and dance over the calm, dark surface. A simple stone bridge links the path to the largest tree of them all, wrapped in ancient stairways and balconies draped in colorful cloths and lanterns.

It is Cullen’s first time seeing such a sight.

It feels like coming  home.

-

Cullen makes no attempt to hide his fascination with everything around him. More than once Dorian has to put a hand out, chuckling under his breath to prevent Cullen from wandering into a fountain or falling from a ledge.

He claims that he has a sense for these things, but Cullen manages to glimpse tiny plant tendrils winding from the roots below them to cling at Dorian’s ankles.

The local flora is telling on him.

By the time they make it to what must be the Edelking’s throne room, Cullen’s hand at Dorian’s elbow for _both_ their protection, someone has beaten them there.

She is, in a word, frighteningly beautiful. Her skin is dark, with streaks of silver dust accenting the sharp cut of her cheek and the curve of her lip. Her clothing marks her as both elegant and dangerous, all sharp angles and sleek lines that hug her every curve.

Where Dorian seems to absorb light, this woman seems to hold it close, eagerly awaiting command.

“The Grand Lucent, Madame Vivienne.” Dorian says, ever so helpfully, without the slightest indication that anyone else is present but Cullen’s awkward mumbling. “I do apologize for our lateness.”

Under his breath Cullen whispers, “ _Dorian, am I meant to kneel?_ ”

“No, dear.” Vivienne smiles, her voice resonates in the grand hall, though she does not raise it. “It would not be proper, as this is not my house. And I can get a much better look at you this way. Do bring your shoulders back.”

Cullen obeys and Dorian shakes his head.

“Dearest Vivienne, I would say it’s a pleasure to see you, but…”

“Your sense of humor has worsened, I see.”

“I like to think that I am constantly evolving.”

“And getting into more and more trouble because of it.”

“So you _did_ come to check on me.”

“I heard you’ve been keeping a Brightlander in your wicked claws, darling. I had to come see.”

“He’s been keeping me, more like.”

“Well, now he shall have company.”

There is no argument.

Really, who would be so foolish as to try?

-

With efforts toward his recovery redoubled and a visiting regent enforcing curfews and _truly heinous herbal teas,_ Dorian has taken once more to grumbling.

Removed from the jovial thaig in the Beneath, there is no regular drunken revelry, though there are a great deal of books Cullen can fetch and read aloud to him. Occasionally, they play chess, and the prince moves his pieces for him.

Vivienne looks in on them often, and sometimes joins them for a spell, bickering with Dorian with a contented curve to her lips and pretending that she enjoys the bitter brews she pours for him. When she is feeling generous, she helps Dorian explain the workings of the different kingdoms and tribes that make up the Dark.

Her explanations of her realm alone are enough to hold Cullen’s rapt attention for _hours_ , and he’s broken from it only when Dorian huffs in irritation at being forgotten.

One evening, when Dorian has drifted off to Cullen’s gentle fingers applying his balm, belly full of bitter herbs and warm cider, Cullen follows her out into the hallway.

“I seem harsh to you, do I not?”

“A bit. But it’s not hard to see through. Dorian’s the same way.”

“Oh?”

“It’s obvious that he respects you, even if he covers it up by being an ass. You’re doing a great deal for him, and I wanted to thank you. He didn’t mean that last bit about horned ogresses.”

Vivienne laughs—actually laughs—and Cullen scratches at the back of his neck. “I told Maevaris once that _this_ is why I keep no children of my own. I do not need them. I can spoil the young ones all I like and make them utterly intolerable. And then, well, they’re her problem. But I do love them, all the same. Ah, but you mustn’t tell him.”

“Of course not, my lady.”

“He’s found a wonder in you.”

-

While Dorian spends what must be an afternoon debating theory with Vivienne on a terrace, Cullen decides to learn the layout of the Grand Tree a bit better. This is perhaps an unwise decision, as he ends up hopelessly lost with no way of telling how long he has been that way.

There is a rather beautiful astral clock situated above the city so that all may view it, but Cullen still hasn’t learned how to _read_ the thing.

He spends a good while heading _down_ , because at some point he should be able to find a door that leads _out_ , and from there someone who can lead him back up to Dorian.

Until something small and furry latches onto his leg and begins, with mercilessly sharpened claws, to _climb. A cat,_ Cullen thinks. And then, with trepidation, _**the**_ _cat._

Blue eyes stare at him accusingly even as she weasels her way under the back of his shirt, and Cullen tries not to shriek at the odd sensation.

Shortly thereafter, a young woman with aristocratic features and hair falling from her bun runs up to him, looking altogether too harassed. “Excuse me, messere. Have you by any chance seen…”

“A cursed cat?”

“ _Yes_.”

Sharp claws prick at the base of his spine, and he fights down the urge to yelp again. “Not presently, my lady.”

She frowns, but thanks him kindly as she continues on her way, sighing about ‘ambassadorial duties’ and ‘ridiculous gifts.’

Cullen braces himself as the cat crawls back up to perch upon his shoulder and butts her head against his ear. “Perhaps you are not so awful as I had thought.”

“I am, of course, relieved.”

“I may even forgive you...if you acquire a nug for me.”

“A what?”

“The Edelking will not allow me one, and I am very lonely.”

-

A rodent.

A rodent with fingers.

Cullen resolves that it shall be their secret.

She seems contented enough to lay about and groom the thing, and Cullen goes to tell the young woman that he has discovered the errant creature.

Everything else is hers to sort out, and she seems surprisingly glad for it.

“I did not get your name, messere.”

“It’s Cullen.”

“Very good. I am Josephine. Shall I show you back to where you ought to be?” Her smile is teasing, which eases the heat of his blush a bit.

“Please. And if we could avoid telling Dorian…?”

“I suppose this may be possible. If you agree not to hide her again.”

-

Dorian’s recovery is slow and steady, and marked with both frustration and reward. He relearns the pathways of Tenebris with cool grasses at his feet and Cullen’s warmth by his side.

Vivienne watches the process with the same gracious smile as always, but after a fortnight monitoring his condition and keeping them both well and truly entertained with her company, she tells them that she must be going.

She does not leave until Cullen has sworn on his family’s honor that he will keep fixing Dorian’s tea.

No amount of sweet kisses will get him out of it.

“When I can see you, my love. You will be _in for it._ ”

-

And then, one morning, Cullen wakes to the sight of clear grey eyes and a wicked grin.

“I don’t suppose I can beg for mercy.”

“Oh, you will. With your cock down my throat. I want to watch you beg while I suck you.”

-

Of course, two young, sexually available men sharing such close living quarters can’t be expected to be _saints_ , now can they?

**Are we really gonna go into this?**

He knows what sex is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am taking my hands off this chapter, dear goodness.


	5. Shadow Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroes become much closer, and are subsequently forced apart. 
> 
> This ends about as well as one might expect.  
> feat. bees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we have "In the Bedroom" and "Loss and Corruption."  
> Because I am horrid and need to be stopped. Subject to revisions. 
> 
> Also, I can't believe I didn't mention before. 
> 
> Special thanks to [Jack](http://jack-the-giantkiller.tumblr.com/) for helping me write this. Without you, this literally would not have been possible (and I'd have missed out on a whole lot of fun.)

 

 

The best part of dwarven clothing is that it's easy to remove.

-

Dorian is slow about it, reveling in the texture of cloth and leather and watching as it inches up, revealing pale skin littered with fading freckles. He bends to kiss just under the prince's belly button, slowly making his way up his chest as he pulls the shirt up and off, leaving them nose to nose.

Cullen's eyes are fixed on his, a dopey smile on his face. “Hello, there.”

He's a sap. A horrible, shameless sap. And Dorian can't help but smile back. “Hello, love.”

A broad, warm hand reaches up to cup his cheek, and Dorian resists the urge to shut his eyes at the sensation. He watches raptly as Cullen continues to explore, running his fingers down his throat and chest and gasping as shadows wrap themselves gently about his fingers, spreading down his arm.

“What...?”

“There is not a part of me that would not be closer to you.”

“Really? Because I can think of a few ways...”

“Feeling impatient?”

“I want to see what's underneath.” Gently, Cullen pulls at cool shadow, allowing it to wind about his wrist and up his arm, spilling toward his torso. The dark curls over his throat and forms an intricate coil about his heart.

Even as he feels the gentle slide of it over his skin, impossibly soft and airy, he watches as more and more of Dorian's is revealed, smooth and perfect, dark nipples decorated with golden hoops. He tugs at one gently, and watches as Dorian's eyes flutter shut, just for a moment on a breathy sigh.

He leans down for a kiss, and rocks his hips downward. The friction isn't much at this angle, but Cullen wraps his arms around him all the same. He can feel Dorian smiling against his mouth, eyes locked and attentive.

“For a while I thought I would never get to see this. You, flushed and panting beneath me.”

“Dorian...”

“Wrapped up in the shadows like this. Mine.”

“Yours,” Cullen whispers.

And that’s when something most unusual happens.

“Cullen, are you aware that you've lit up?”

“You make me feel bright inside.”

“No, love. Literally.” Dorian grasps the hand still toying with his piercing and twines their fingers together where Cullen can see. Beneath the shadows coiling down his arm, Cullen's skin glows a soft gold, pulsing under the touch of Dorian's hand. “You’re a bloody night light.”

“Oh...” Cullen mumbles, and the light begins to dim.  

“I didn't say you should stop.”

“But last time...”

“If it becomes too much, I can close my eyes. For now, I want to see you.” Without warning, he slips his fingers beneath the waistband of Cullen's pants and wraps them around his cock.

“Oh, I—”

“Glow.”

Cullen can't really _stop_ himself after that.

The sensation of long, talented fingers sliding over his dick is almost too much after so long without even the touch of his own hand. Dorian seems wickedly content just watching Cullen groan and cant his hips, eager for anything he's willing to give.

Until, of course, he stops.

“Interesting,” Dorian purrs. “But I wonder what will happen once you're inside me.”

-

It is almost, but not quite, like watching an ember build into a roaring flame.

As he sinks down on Cullen's cock, his skin seems to flicker. Calloused hands grasp at Dorian's hips, thumbs dragging against hot flesh as they rock together. Even fully seated, he tries to pull his lover closer, swearing under his breath.

Cullen's grip is steady, even as his hips stutter awkwardly trying to match Dorian's pace. For his part, Dorian is determined to make this as slow and agonizingly good as he possibly can. Even now, he knows this cannot last.

He was not made to look upon such brilliant things.

“The way you feel...” The prince sighs, and another pulse of light flares under the skin. “The way you look. There can't be anyone as beautiful as you.”

“Oh, sweet boy. You haven't looked very far.” Dorian teases, but still he rolls his hips, reveling in the feel of Cullen stretching him, hot and hard and slick inside. He wants to be locked like this forever.

“I don't want to.”

“You're too young to say things like tha—ah-ahh.”

Cullen's grip tightens as he gains confidence, the glow under his skin growing, it seems, with his confidence. His thrusts become steadier, harder, and Dorian whines helplessly at the feeling of his lover driving into him again and again.

“You're not so bad at...mmm...”

“I'll never want _anyone_ like this.” With one hand he reaches up to tangle his fingers in Dorian's sweat-dampened hair and drag him down into a kiss. His cock is trapped between them, rubbing incessantly against Cullen's toned stomach even as his bright-eyed lover devours his mouth, groaning into the contact. “There will never be anyone but you.”

Dorian sobs, at the building sensation inside him or the promise in Cullen's words. He cannot tell, but he wants it. He wants it all so badly.

“You want to see me glow.”

“ _Yes._ ”

“Then let me see you come.”

“ _Fuck._ ”

Dorian has no choice but to obey.

As he tightens around the hot press of his lover inside him, he can't help but close his eyes against the onslaught of sensation. Every muscle tenses, leaving him shaking and tired and so, so content.

But beyond the shield of his eyelids, he sees something flare brightly before going dim once more.

And so he smiles.

-

“Do you suppose we have any more of that balm left?”

“Dorian?!”

“I'm joking, love.”

“You're _horrible!_ ”

“And you love me.”

“More than anything, Maker knows why. Don't _do_ that to me.”

“I like your blush almost as much as your glow.”

Cullen lays a smack against a plump ass cheek, and Dorian nips at his shoulder before giving in to his own laughter.

-

A great man once said, “The course of true love never did run smooth,” and while he was a bit of an ass, we’ll forgive him in this instance. Because he is horribly, _disgustingly_ correct, and young love is the worst offender.

Especially when it comes to honorable men.

Maker save us all from honorable men.

**Ugh.**

-

Dorian lays tangled half in the sheets, draped over his lover as he traces the shadows that have come to span the golden man’s skin as easily as his own. The dark designs rise and fall with his breath, gripping at him as lovingly as Dorian will always want to.

He touches a curling piece of the dark and feels it pulse and grip at his skin, as if to draw him down and tie them together.

But this won’t do at all.

“You’ve been here for over a month.”

“Has it been a month already?” Cullen rumbles. “I can never seem to get enough time with you.”

Dorian’s skin takes on the dusting of gold that Cullen seems to delight in more and more each time he summons it up, and the faerie prince runs gentle fingers down to the dip at the base of his spine.

“You’re trying to get at something, aren’t you?”

“It is...abundantly clear that your family—”

“My mother.”

“Your family, and your mother in particular, disapprove of us.”

“What’s that’s got to do with the price of peas in the plaza?”

“You can’t honestly expect them to allow you to remain here with me.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“Of course not, but—”

“Then there’s nothing that can make me.”

-

Nothing, better known as King’s Champion Cassandra Pentaghast and a very wet, very irate Prince Branson with pixie bites all over his arms.

Fortune finds Cullen out with Bull and his Chargers, browsing in the markets for a ring.

Bull elbows him in the ribs and he stumbles, laughing at some horrible joke. And then there’s Felix, looking shamefaced at being made to escort these hostile strangers into the heart of their lands.

“They found their way to the Wilds,” He explains. “Morrigan nearly took the big one’s head off.”

Cullen follows Felix’s gesturing hands to a modest contingent of soldiers, all mounted on horseback, but none more put out than Cassandra herself. “You can either mount up under your own power, or I shall knock you down and carry you back like a captured maiden.”

“Do it, Cull.” Branson nearly _growls._ “We’ve been looking for you for a _week_ , wandering that damnable wood. And you’re—what? Fucking about with the locals? We thought you were _dead_.”

“‘Fucking about’?” Cullen hisses. “Is that what mother said? That I’d gone ‘fucking about’?”

“I do not care if your mother strips naked and recites Orlesian ballads in the town square. I am taking you back to palace to fulfill your rightful duties. I consider you my friend, Cullen. Do not make me _spank_ you in front of these…”

“Beasts?” Bull volunteers. “Monsters?”

Skinner bares her teeth, “Always liked ‘fiend’ myself.”

“Demons!” Rocky laughs.

They continue this way until Cassandra shouts, “Enough!”

The soldiers shift uncomfortably on their mounts as more of the market goers gather around, eager to see the source of the commotion. If they’re not careful about this, there _will_ be an incident.

“If I don’t go with you willingly, you’ll force me?”

“Shit situation, sunspot. You’d better go with ‘em.” Bull mutters.

Cullen turns to Felix. “You’ll tell Dorian?”

Felix offers him a tired smile. “You’ll know he’s heard by the sounds of things combusting in the distance.”

“Bull…”

Bull’s grin is wicked and sharp. “You can expect us to come with him when he rides to your rescue. And when that happens…” He takes a menacing step towards a nearby guard, who does a poor job of disguising his high-pitched squeak.

“Don’t be so dramatic. I’ll be back before too long. Don’t let him worry.”

“Ha. Right.”

Branson frowns at them, and Cullen rolls his eyes. “Can we get him some pixie ointment before we go?”

-

Before he had left to give Dorian his mother’s false present, Cullen had never realized how imposing and unfriendly the Grand Hall of Honnleath’s palace could be.

Now he stands before his entire family, his mother and father seated foremost on the dais, flanked by his siblings. The general mood is confusing, to say the least. Branson is angry, Mia is deeply concerned, and Rosalie looks as if she’s about to see her favorite tragic play.

Queen Adelaide has the decency to look somewhat guilty, but it is clear that King Bernard intends to lecture him _thoroughly_ before he hears his apology.

But Cullen does not intend to apologize.

Before his father can even _begin_ one of his grand diatribes, Cullen cuts him off.

Everything is quiet as the Crown Prince of Honnleath begins to rip his revered father a brand new asshole.

“Before we begin whatever farce it is you have planned for me, I would like to point out that I was brought here against my will, and that you sent an _armed brigade_ into a peaceful kingdom to do so.”

“Peaceful?! They _kidnapped_ you.”

“They did not. I traveled there myself, to present a courting gift.” He draws a deep breath before leveling his mother with the coolest stare he can manage. “One I suspect you well knew of. Did you know it would hurt him, mother?”

“Of course not! I...had only thought…”

“Because it did. I was such an idiot. I thought that you might have changed your mind and wished me well, and you led me to _hurt_ him. A member of the Royal Dark, and you gave me a poisoned gift. Even if everything in me had not bid that I stay with him then, it would have been my duty. You could have started a _war_ , mother.”

“Cullen…”

“Better you had ordered me to rip out my own heart.”

“I didn’t know you felt…”

“You didn’t _fucking_ ask!”

A wave of hushed whispers surges through the court, and Cullen watches his father’s pale skin turn an unnatural shade of purple-red.

“But you did bother to speak to me, at least. To pretend. Was it his idea?”

“You will _hold_ your _tongue!_ ”

“Bullshit! It’s _my_ turn, now. You owe me this much, after trying so hard to ruin the best part of me.” As he snarls at his father, he feels something cool and comforting move against the hot skin of his throat. A bit too late.

“Restrain him.” Bernard barks, and two guards that Cullen has trained beside since they were children step forward to hold him by the arms. “These clothes of yours are not known to us. Where is your armor?”

“I stopped wearing it. It reflects light that hurts eyes better suited to the dark.”

“I see.”

Cullen can see the sickened expression on Cassandra’s face even as she obeys the order to cut open his shirt. She whispers her apologies even as the cloth falls apart, leaving the shadows twining over his skin visible to the entire assembly.

Another wave of scandalized whispering, and Cullen pulls his arms from the slackened hold of his guards. “Would you like me to do a spin?”

“Insolent boy! You stand before us with your corruption clear as day, and you choose to make jokes? You have consumed the fruits of the Forbidden lands and must be purified.”

“...Consumed the fruits? It’s been a month. Did you expect me not to eat?”

“You claim that this is not the source of your curse?”

“I claim that I’m not cursed in the first place. These shadows are Dorian’s, and each time we _fuck_ they cling to me.”

Rosalie _beams_ , even as she props Adelaide up a bit in her seat.

“He says they like me.”

Cullen smirks a bit as Mia smacks Branson’s arm with her fan.

“They do.” Dorian’s voice is filtered and strange, but it is unmistakable to Cullen’s ears. Before he can turn to see what has changed, he hears the echo of armored footsteps approaching, and marvels at the sight of what _must_ be Dorian’s formal armor.

[The entirety of it, from the horns upon the helm to the tips of his boots, is comprised of shining black metal, The detailing is masterful, but not overdone, and where the traditional armor of Honnleath tends to draw attention by reflecting light, this absorbs it.](http://pre10.deviantart.net/eff3/th/pre/f/2012/005/1/4/dragonlord_skyrim_custom_armor_by_zerofrust-d4lf9ig.jpg)

It’s rather suited for Dorian, after all.

“Monster!” Bernard growls, taking a threatening step down from his dais. “How dare you show your face here?!”

“I’m not. That’s what the helmet’s for, you see.”

Cullen snorts.

“Captain Blackwall! Would you care to explain how this abomination got through the gates?”

Blackwall, for his part, looks a bit out of breath as more of the Edelking’s retinue saunters in through the doors to the grand hall. Unable to do much else, he gives a shrug of his broad shoulders.

“That one came riding in on a gigantic bloody tiger, ser, and the rest weren’t much better. The stableboys are all shitting themselves, and there’s not much to be done with the ones ‘at were stationed by the gate.”

“You mean to tell me that our highly trained warriors have abandoned their posts in the face of a tarsoul, an overgrown _cat_ , and a band of mercenaries?”

“And bees, Majesty. I’m told there were bees.”

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise, but Cullen can see her fighting not to laugh.

“You will of course have to pardon us for not bringing a proper military force to answer your assault upon my person and subsequent abduction of my fiancee. The Grand Lucent, the Deshyr of the Beneath, and the Dread Wolf all send their warmest regards, but I insisted upon handling the matter myself. I would so hate to alienate my in-laws.”

He sketches a graceful bow, even in full armor, and the shadows on Cullen’s skin _hum_ at the nearness of him. As he rises, he removes the helm, revealing the scrap of red fabric from Cullen’s old armor that he has apparently fashioned into a serviceable blindfold.

The most terrifying part, Cullen thinks, is that he has managed to make it look _fashionable._ That is, until his lips curl into a wicked, threatening grin.

“Now,” He says. “Who would like to apologize first?”

-

There is nothing that says ‘impending wedded bliss’ like the threat of total warfare and a few backhanded compliments.

**I’ve got the sneaking suspicion I know where he learned it from.**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian's armor is actually a Skyrim armor mod by Zerofrust on DeviantArt and, if you missed it in the story text, can be found [here.](http://zerofrust.deviantart.com/art/DRAGONLORD-Skyrim-custom-armor-277848808)
> 
> We're almost to the end! 
> 
> There have been some interesting guesses as to the narrator so far. 
> 
> :)


	6. Vows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wedding is a party, not a performance.  
> If at the end of the day you are married to the one you love, then everything went perfectly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Marriage" prompt.
> 
> I am beyond late, and I apologize. A lot's been happening lately. 
> 
> Bless Jack for sitting on me and making me push this thing towards the finish. We're almost there, y'all!
> 
> Also a huge thank you goes out to [daftpoptart](http://daftpoptart.tumblr.com/post/144131580446/so-if-you-like-cullrian-you-should-totally-read), who drew a beautiful picture of Dorian. (And now I'm sobbing over it again.)

I’ll tell you now that you’re going to go your entire life with people trying to give you well-intentioned advice, and you will have to decide which pieces are worth paying attention to and which are utter nonsense.

You may well hear, _Love makes people mad._

Love by itself does not make people mad. It makes them want to do things that _seem_ mad. Like fetching things from high, perilous places, or traveling leagues across the ocean to bottle a warm breeze.

But these are incarnations of the things you recognize from your every day. Your father hears your stomach growl and carries you on his shoulders to pluck fruit from a tree. Your papa sees you tremble at the dark and makes the shadows dance for you.

Now, what do you think they do that for?

_I know that one!_

Hm?

_Because it makes me smile._

**Got it in one, kid.**

-

In a bright kingdom recovering from a recent war, and with quite a bit of rubble littering even the halls of the royal palace, a single cloaked figure has very little trouble slipping past the guards and waltzing right into the king’s audience hall.

The king himself is besieged by advisors who all determinedly ignore the faces he makes as they continue to argue and wheeze at one another.

The figure smiles. “Have I come at a bad time, Your Majesty?”

Everything seems to halt abruptly, as if he’d blown a ship’s whistle rather than asking a question. Such is the way with darkly shrouded persons entering the royal presence unannounced. The most purple-faced (and therefore the senior most among them) makes a noise as if a small animal is trying to escape his throat. “ _Who_ are _you?!_ ”

“A messenger, at present. At times a king, and often a traveler. More and more frequently, of late, I’m a wanton.”

Several more of the advisors look painfully confused.

The king groans, reaching up to rub at his temples. “Please no more riddles. Why can’t any of you dark and brooding types just speak Common like the rest of us?”

“Excuse you. I came to get you out of here.”

The royal countenance brightens as if it’s just been announced that every day is Satinalia, and he seems to squirm in his throne.

“Do not be fooled, Your Majesty. This creature cannot be trusted.”

“Right, I’m inclined to call bullshit.”

“ _Alistair_.” One hisses. “Mind your tongue.”

“I’ve been minding my tongue for _weeks._ If I thought it might have helped, I’d have cut it out and stuffed it in my ears by now. _What’s the catch, sir?_ ”

“I’m afraid you’re likely to be forced into formal wear.”

“Formal wear as in...ritual sacrifice? I’m sorry, but you do seem a bit foreboding in all that. If you’re looking for a virgin, I managed to solve that problem a few weeks back.”

“I suppose congratulations are in order.”

Alistair beams, “I thought so.”

“A fair maiden is in your cards, then?”

“She’d blacken my eye if I said any more.”

“True love?”

“True love.”

“Then you’ve got a plus one. I’ll have to tell Josephine. Do you prefer chicken or beef?”

“Frankly I’ll be alright as long as there’s cheese.”

“So you’ll come along?”

“It would probably be proper for me to insist upon the where. They tell me I’m a king.”

“I hate it when they do that.”

“Yes, well…?”

“A wedding, I’m afraid. Dreadfully mushy affair.”

“Ooh! Who’s getting hitched?”

“Your cousin.”

“I’m afraid I have a few. Tell me it isn’t Rosalie.”

“Goodness, no. She’d sooner dissect a suitor than marry him just yet.”

“She keeps a pig in a jar.”

“It’s made of fondant.”

“Oh. Joy.”

“But no, she won’t be getting married any time soon, and Mia’s just been wedded.”

“She has?” Alistair droops a bit in his throne. “I should send her a present. Or a fruit basket. Do you send fruit baskets for weddings?” He looks hopefully at one of his advisors, who _pouts_ at him.

“There’s time for that later. I’ll need an answer quickly, as I’ve left Cullen in a frightfully familiar situation with your relatives.”

“Cullen?” Alistair giggles. “In trouble with his parents? He’s never done a wrong thing in his life!”

“There’s the trouble, you see. He’s agreed to marry me.”

-

Cullen stands in the middle of the Grand Root, surrounded by servants rushing this way and that, trying not to scream as his father continues his one-man argument. If one more helpful elven woman hands him a swatch or a china sample, he is going to jump from the platform and into the lake below.

Everything is noise.

Cullen clenches his eyes shut as his father continues his diatribe. His mother grasps at his sleeve, whether she’s trying to stop him or seeking support, he honestly can’t tell. Rosalie’s disappeared to harass some poor, innocent creature, but Branson and his wife are trying to keep their youngest from toddling directly off the edge.

It is a near-physical tangle of _**careful careful can’t BELIEVE you would do such an IRRESPONSIBLE do you like the red or the burgundy sire Ethain get AWAY from there MONSTERS this lot—**_

He wants to scream.

Just before he gets the chance, a loud whistle splits the heavy air, and all eyes turn to the entrance, where King Alistair stands with a broad smile, Dorian nearly bouncing on his toes beside him.

_Look what_ _**I** _ _found!_

Cullen’s heart feels overwhelmingly full. “Alistair!” He beams, striding over to meet them.

“Cullen! Good news, we’re done with the war.”

“I’d heard. How is being the uncontested King of Ferelden?”

“Surprisingly similar to being the contested king, actually. Just as much yelling, but the men doing it are older, and I can’t fight them.”

“I know the feeling.”

“I heard!”

“I can guess who told you.”

“Ah, yeah.” Alistair looks sideways at Dorian, who looks nearly ready to float right off the floor. “I heard you might need a second.”

“What for?”

Dorian stops bouncing and looks at him as if he’s suggested running nude through one of Vivienne’s parties. “‘ _What for?’_ ”

“I know _you_ wouldn’t mind, but I’m not about to challenge my father to a duel!”

King Bernard’s face turns an eerily familiar shade of purple. “You are not so large that I can’t turn you over my knee.”

Adelaide sighs. “Yes he is, dear.”

“Do it anyway.” Branson says.

“We’re to be married,” Dorian says, as if he’s explaining something very complex to someone very young. “When we stand at the altar, it will be side by side. On _my_ other side will be Felix. On _your_ other side there will be…”

“ _Maker_.” Cullen hisses. “I hadn’t thought.”

“That we’d be standing at an altar? Did you suppose we married in drum circles, dressed only in animal blood and the light of the moon?”

For a moment, Cullen’s eyes darken.

“We’re not doing that. And if we ever do, Josephine will _not_ be planning it. _Ask him._ ”

“Alistair, would you do me the honor of being my second, he who stands beside me to defend all that I come to call my own?”

Alistair, to his credit, tries to keep a straight face for all of three seconds. “Could I say no to that?”

“You could,” Dorian drawls. “But you’d probably have to go home and act like a grown man again.”

“Eeugh.”

Cullen laughs. “Well?”

“There’s really nowhere else I’d rather be.” He reaches out and claps his favorite cousin by the shoulder, then lowers his voice to a stage whisper. “Did I tell you I finally lost my v card?”

Dorian rolls his eyes as Cullen seems to light up.

“You, too?!”

“Yeah! And you...with him?”

Cullen glances at Dorian as if to ask permission, eyes large and pleading.

“If you give him any details, we’ll see about finding that card again. Go play. I suppose it’s my turn to look at the linens.”

Cullen pales a bit. “Do you know the difference between burnished eggshell and cream? Because I think I might be colorblind.”

“ _Leave_.”

Dorian hides his smile as the two men stumble off together, heads bent to examine the shadows twined lovingly about Cullen’s arm. He hears Alistair blow an impressed whistle, then, “Well, _that_ didn’t happen with Siobhan.”

For a moment, he allows himself to think wistfully of joining them before he turns back to the assembled royalty of Honnleath. “Well, then. Shall we resume the yelling, or had we moved on to chilled silence?”

His gaze lands on Adelaide, whose lips seem to twitch a bit before she sways in place. “Oh, my!” She cries, “I seem to be growing faint. Such excitement.”

Branson hands the child off to his wife before moving to assist his father in escorting the queen to their rooms. The young woman—Miranda, Dorian heard her called—pauses in closer proximity to him than any of the entourage has before.

She gives him a shy smile, adjusting her child to account for the swell of her belly. “It’s funny, you know. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Red Lioness of Honnleath so much as stumble.”

“The what?”

“Good night, Majesty. And good luck with those linens.”

-

Do they really all need titles?

**She does.**

Does she introduce herself that way? The Red Lioness of Honnleath, indeed…

**Rolls off the tongue easier than She Who Trod the Scorched Earth and Recovered the Hearth Light that the Sun Prince May Look Out Upon the People.**

Gesundheit.

_What’s a lioness?_

A very large cat.

_Like a tiger!_

**Fewer stripes, but yeah.**

-

“I got to talking with Alistair…” Cullen rumbles, newly sated and sprawled out upon their bed later in the evening.

Dorian huffs against his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

“No, I mean—well, yes. I _should_ thank you. I have never cared less for plates in my life. But I mean, we got to talking…”

“About losing your virginity. I heard.” He props himself up to better grin down at his intended. “How was that?”

“Vague, but with lots of sighing and lavish compliments about your prowess in bed.”

“Very good, you may continue.”

“We started talking about the wedding, and how I met you, and...Alistair pointed something out.”

“Oh?”

“You never really...that is…”

“Cullen, we are lying in our bed, naked as the day we were born, recovering from three very fulfilling rounds of sex. In a few days time, we will have all of each other. There is absolutely no reason I can come up with for you to feel shy right now.”

“That’s the thing. We’re going to be married, and neither of us actually _asked._ ”

“Oh.” Dorian seems to shrink on himself. “I hadn’t thought…”

“No! I mean, I want to. It just seems odd that neither of us really talked about it. I’d meant to, you know?”

“You did?”

“I was out looking for rings and everything.”

“Are we certain that it’s too late to punch your father?”

“You’d have to get through my mother, and I like you in one piece.”

Dorian scrunches up his nose, but Cullen breezes right through.

“There won’t be enough time to do this properly, but I wanted to do _something_.” He presses a soft, lingering kiss to Dorian’s forehead. When Dorian opens his eyes again, it’s to the sight of Cullen offering a circle of woven meadowsweet, just big enough to fit comfortably about his ring finger.

“Did you really…?”

“If you don’t like it, I can toss it out. It’s nothing special.”

“We really have to work on that ego of yours, my love. You’re much too humble.” Dorian presses a kiss to the tip of his nose and gingerly takes the ring. “I’ve a spell or two that can preserve it.”

“I know an arcanist who can probably cast it in metal for you…”

“I like it this way. You made it for me.” Dorian hums thoughtfully as he slips the ring onto his finger, admiring it in the soft dim. “And I’ll fight you if you try to take it off.”

“I suppose that settles it then.” He wraps Dorian up tightly in his arms and pulls him as close as he can. “You’re stuck with me.”

“Believe me, I figured that out a while ago.”

-

Over the course of a week, more and more guests make their way to the seat of Tenebris for the upcoming ceremony and the undoubtedly legendary celebrations to follow.

Maevaris and Thorold, for their part, have the decency to appear a full four days early and lighten the tension brewing in the airy halls. Maevaris takes up the wedding plans with Josephine and Dorian with vicious passion, and Thorold—bless him for his endless patience—settles himself neatly betwixt Cullen and his family.

Each time Bernard attempts to resume verbal hostilities, Thorold strikes up a conversation. He asks after Cullen’s cultural studies and his latest misadventures, Adelaide’s garden and her latest economic projects, Rosalie’s latest (and least disturbing) studies.

One afternoon, with Dorian, Josephine, and Maevaris all off to compare virtually identical sauces for the fish, the remaining family members gather in one of the gardens for tea. A cohort of faeries flits overhead, evidently engaged in a full tackle game of tag, and Bernard _growls_ as one plops neatly into his cup.

“So!” Thorold nearly shouts. “You say they’ve picked out the linens?”

“I’m not allowed to ask, but I _think_ they have.”

“Dorian upset?”

“He talked last night about going with a drum circle after all, but I don’t think he meant it. He’s very angry about something called a puce.”

“Puce is a color, lad.”

“What color?”

“I...don’t really know.”

Bernard snorts, likely ready to impugn everyone’s intelligence, when a new voice, rough and deep, comes from the nearest arch in the foliage. “It’s a purple brown color. Kind of like that one’s face.” A beardless dwarf in a worn duster gestures to His Majesty with a grin.

Rosalie nearly _cackles_ with delight. The sound is bone chillingly well-practiced, and Branson frowns in open disapproval.

“Varric!” Thorold grins, then slaps Cullen’s knee before rising to greet the other dwarf. “Cullen, my friend, I’d like to introduce my cousin, Varric Tethras.”

It stuns Cullen still that dwarves seem to have none of the same hang-ups regarding their true names. Stranger still, the man seems to have complete confidence with his surroundings. Even Thorold is a bit out of sorts above ground, and Cullen is more than happy to let the man anchor himself on his arm from time to time.

Varric’s stance is confident, his smile roguish, and his gaze appraising. Cullen can almost _feel_ irreverence coming off of the man, and he feels himself relax a bit more.

“Adventurer, marksman, teller of tales…” Thorold cheerfully embellishes.

“Unfortunately also the Deshyr.” Varric shrugs, as if to ask ‘what can you do.’ The title seems familiar, but Cullen can’t place his finger on why. “I’ll be performing your service.”

“Oh! Dorian mentioned—you’re in charge of…” Cullen waves, rather stupidly, at the ground, and Varric rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, in that general direction. When I can’t get away.”

“I’m sorry. I’d hoped I might get to talk to you before the ceremony.”

Rosalie snorts. “You’ll want to skip the objections bit.”

“I’m sitting right here.” Bernard grumbles.

“He’d have to provide a reason, anyway,” Branson grunts, reaching for another dainty pastry from the tiered platter. “Other than being pissed Cullen fucked off for a _month_ with no word and came back promised to some ponce from the forest.”

“ _The_ ponce from the forest.” Rosalie snaps. “Read a book.”

“I miss Mia.”

“Right,” Varric laughs. “Sounds like a party.”

-

After a surprisingly pleasant evening spent with their families and a great deal of wine, Cullen follows Dorian’s footsteps back to their rooms.

Or he _thought_ he’d been following Dorian’s footsteps back to their rooms.

He seems to be lost again.

He’s about ready to rely on the _find the stairs and hug the wall_ method again when a lilting voice purrs at him from the shadows, a pair of brilliant blue eyes studying him as one might a potential meal. “I see _someone_ let you out of his sight, sweet prince.”

The tiger woman saunters toward him, her red hair cropped much shorter, but still brilliant in the gentle lighting of the corridor. He sincerely hopes someone’s fed her, now that she’s been restored to her proper size.

“I see someone’s finally given you a shirt.”

“Oh, no. That would be sweet Josephine.”

Cullen frowns. “Do you refer to everyone that way?”

“What way?”

“Like they’re food? And really, considering we’re all meat, would we truly taste—”

“I wouldn’t eat Josephine.” She seems sincerely offended at the very idea. “No more than you would eat your Edelking.”

“Oh. _Oh!”_

“It astounds me how _lucky_ you are, truly. But I suppose you are a genuinely noble man.” She looks him up and down, and seems reasonably contented with whatever she sees. “I will take you to your rooms, if you see the Morrigan seated far away from me.”

“I keep hearing things about this Morrigan. Is she truly so frightening?”

“She smells like bog, and she eats nugs.”

“You’ll eat _people_ , but not _nugs_?”

“Nugs don’t curse people.”

“...Fair.”

“Are you coming, or no?”

Obediently, Cullen follows her to Dorian’s chambers.

“I’m afraid I never got your name.”

“I didn’t have one, when you came barging into my Temple. I had spent centuries there, trapped, my memories lost to time.”

“And now?”

“Josephine calls me Leliana. It is as good a name as any.”

“Leliana. It’s pretty. Really, though. I’m glad you’re content here. Three square meals, and all.” He says, still eternally awkward.

Leliana turns her head to regard him with one bright eye. “Love fills us up.”

-

On the morning of his wedding day, Cullen can feel his insides tying themselves into knots. He’s reasonably certain that no one among their horde of guests is stupid enough to object to their union.

Even his father seems to have calmed through his mother’s continued interference.

His mother, who still looks at him as if he might drop dead or fly into a rage at any moment. He’s only just managed to get her to look him in the eye again.

He doesn’t know how he feels about what she has done, and so his stomach burns when she pokes her head into his room. “May I come in?” She asks, her voice quiet and hesitant. As if she weren’t the woman who stormed keeps and cowed dragons in her youth.

His mother has spent the better part of her life at court pretending at being delicate, and it hurts him to see her at it now.

The Red Lioness of Honnleath wouldn’t betray her son like this woman has.

“It depends.” He says. “Am I speaking to my mother, or my father’s wife?”

Adelaide steps inside the chamber, marching across the floor with a frown on her face. Her hands fly up, and for a moment Cullen flinches before he realizes what she’s doing. With frightening precision, she straightens his jacket and begins to attack the mess that his restless fingers have made of his hair.

“It will not happen again. Your parents are not so young as they appear, and we have never been perfect. That’s the danger of raising children on myths and legends. So when you…”

She pauses to take a deep breath, and Cullen knows that she’s breathing from the diaphragm, preparing for some lofty aria.

He doesn’t want it.

“ _Please_ , mum. We’ve got half an hour before the ceremony. Can’t you just _say_ it?”

Adelaide blinks at him, still all puffed up with air, and then something strange happens. He watches in mute surprise as all of that air leaves her in a great belly laugh, leaving her bent over and gasping, her head resting against his chest.

It takes her a few moments, but eventually she straightens up and smiles at him with tears in her eyes. “I was so worried we had ruined the best part of you,” She says. “I’m so glad we didn’t. Be happy, you horrid, wonderful boy.”

-

In the field where Cullen first felt Dorian’s touch, surrounded by Quiet Adoration and Promiseblossoms, they stand before a grinning Varric. The Deshyr is flanked by the Dread Wolf and Grand Lucent, each prepared to deliver their own blessings as witnesses to their union.

To either side of the couple, half-facing the congregation stand the members of the wedding party. If Cullen and Dorian did not provide a proper spectacle for the gathered audience, they certainly do.

On Dorian’s side, Felix beams nearly wide enough to split his face in half, a rose candy from Cullen’s mother secreted away in his cheek. Beside him, Morrigan seems far less irritated than usual, occasionally cracking a tiny smile between threatening glances at Alistair. Maevaris stands at the end of the line, close to the front pew where Thorold sits, both of them watching with rapt attention as Dorian prepares to tie himself to his prince.

On Cullen’s side, there’s quite a bit more fidgeting. Alistair shifts uncomfortably in place, his attention alternating between the proceedings and Morrigan, as if she might at any moment choose to lunge across the way and pry out his eyes for her spellwork. Rosalie, too, splits her attention between her brother and the witch, eager to drink in the sight of Dread Morrigan in all of her magnificent gloom. Bull, for his part, alternates between dabbing at his eye with an embroidered handkerchief and whispering puns at Rosalie, who snorts because one _must not seem cheerful_ in the presence of a dread sorceress.

(Teenagers.)

A flight of faeries glows cheerfully overheard, as much for decoration as for the benefit of their Brightlander guests.

But Dorian himself seems lit from within, at least in Cullen’s eyes. He’s confident he could find his beloved even in the deepest dark. Where their hands are joined, the shadows seem to coil and bind them together, parting only to reveal the rings they have exchanged.

Dorian’s is made of meadowsweet and Cullen’s, according to Dorian, was fashioned from the bones of a dragon. (He’d nearly strangled Bull to keep it a secret.)

Each wears a crown of Edelblooms and an impossibly large grin as Varric comes to what has been known since Time Immemorial as The Important Part.

“Master, are you certain of your heart’s call?” He asks, eyes fixed upon Dorian.

“I am.”

“Keeper, are you certain of your heart’s call?” He turns his eyes to Cullen, who seems to puff up.

“I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

“I’m gonna need a yes, Curly.”

“Ah. Yes, I am.” He ducks his head a bit, blushing bright red, but Dorian’s fingers tighten around his, and he feels so light.

“Have you both reflected upon this path you have chosen, to remain together in the face of time and all adversaries? To shelter one another from the cold and the storm? To put up with all the whining and the fumbling?”

“Varric.” Dorian hisses.

“Have you?”

“We have.” They respond, a bit disjointed, but still harmonious.

“Then vow by your heart, Master.”

“No matter where you go in these long years, know that there is no place in this world I will not follow, and damn the consequences. I vow myself to you.”

“And vow by your heart, Keeper.”

“No matter what force may try to come between us, know that I will always return to you. I will lead you in the light as you have led me in the dark, and nothing will keep me from you. I vow myself to you.”

“I’ll hold you both to that.” Varric grins. “These vows I have witnessed, and that union I shall declare: You are now of one heart. Lords and ladies, I present the Edelking and the Edelprince, may they reign long and justly.”

“Finally.” Dorian smiles, his head dropping to rest on Cullen’s strong shoulder.

“I think this is the bit where we’re meant to kiss.”

“How could I forget?”

And so they do.

-

Together they run back down the aisle in a shower of flower petals, glitter, and the occasional spark of showy magical energy. Cullen laughs and grips Dorian tighter to his side, and Dorian lets himself be pulled along.

They are meant to make their way back to Tenebris proper for the reception, but Cullen makes a rather abrupt detour into the depths of the forest, the steady, joyous glow of his skin lighting their path before Dorian can think to conjure a whisp.

Cullen is so beautiful.

_His husband_ is so beautiful, and Dorian is content to follow wherever he may lead.

-

Where he leads turns out to be the quiet, darkened gap in the trees where Cullen first stumbled into his life and onto an evil flower.

“You sap,” He whispers, as if his walks do not still occasionally take him to this place.

“Look,” Cullen says, pointing to the spot where Love Beyond All Obstacles once whispered to the heartbroken and the lost.

Dorian moves closer, releasing Cullen’s hands that he might kneel down, careful of his finery. If he ruined his clothing, at least three matrons in his life would throw a fit, and Krem would stab him with those damnable needles.

There, where the flower stood, there is now a small, golden plaque in the earth.

_Here is where I first found my heart._

“Oh, you bastard.”

“I love you.”

“Do you know how long it took to apply all of this?”

“I love you.” Cullen repeats, his laughter growing in volume.

“Mae is going to cut you. Oh, I’m leaking.”

“You’re beautiful,” Cullen says, reaching out to cup Dorian’s face between his palms and guide him gently to his feet. His thumbs brush at stray smudges of kohl. “I don’t think it’s possible for you to look anything but perfect.”

“Flatterer.” Dorian sniffles.

“And you know, I thought since we’re alone…”

“Don’t you dare. We have to get to the reception. Josephine will murder us both.”

“I meant that we should exchange _names,_ you pervert.”

“You really did plan this out, didn’t you?” Dorian laughs. “And I’m ruining it.”

“You agreed to marry me. There is no way to ruin that.”

“Right. You first, then?”

“My name is Cullen Stanton Rutherford, and my heart is in your hands.”

“I already knew that.”

“ _Dorian, you ass._ ”

Dorian presses his face to Cullen’s chest, feeling the warmth of him and closing his eyes to let the glow fade and pulse against his mind’s eye. He stays there for a moment, breathing deeply before he withdraws.

“A’Doriann Epros Pavus. That is my name. And now it is yours, like the rest of me.”

Cullen’s hands rest on Dorian’s hips, his lips against Dorian’s forehead. “I will guard it with my life.”

“Don’t, please.”

“...Are you sure we can’t be a _little bit_ late for the reception?”

“You are not fucking me against a tree.”

“Fair enough.”


	7. A Light in the Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen comes up with another unconventional gift, and narrowly avoids being murdered. 
> 
> An epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has taken for-fucking-ever but this story is finally finished! 
> 
> I am the shittiest human being, but thank you to anyone who's stayed with me this long. A gigantic thank you to the wonderful people who read through this for me, and to Jack, who sat on me until it was finished.

In the umbral realms, the nature of reality is different from the Brightlands. The veil between our world and the ones beyond is thinner, and those who watch and wonder wait. They speak in hushed whispers, but rarely venture close to those who wander...until they are lost.

And then, well...the little one only wants to help.

-

Really, Cullen thinks, he ought to stop this questing business. He knows that Dorian _loathes_ when he goes away, but a year has passed since their eternal vows and—well, after the entire debacle that became of his last gift, he figures he owes his husband _something_ worthwhile for their first celebration.  

But there appear to be two fatal flaws in his plan:

  * He had departed without a goal in mind, and as a result has _still_ not figured out a proper gift and—
  * Now he is hopelessly lost. In a swamp. There’s a _horrible_ sucking sensation in his boots each time he takes a step.



Dorian will likely give him such a cold shoulder that the couch he’ll end up sleeping on will freeze, but he’ll gladly welcome the chill if he can just figure out which way _home_ is supposed to be.

It seems silly, now. He’s gone galavanting off to find some shining trinket to prove his love to a man who has insisted, time and again, that the most valuable gift is his lover’s time. (And, more subtly, that cheap mulled wine they sell in the market by the enchanter’s shop.)

Sod all of the epic ballads his mother sang when he was knee-high to a goblin.

Dorian is a cheap date, and Cullen is an _idiot._

An idiot with swamp water in his boots.

_Slurk skwsh. Slurk skwsh. Slurk skwsh._

Ugh.

“The other side is empty again, and he does not want what you will hand him.” The voice is small and soft, thin like reeds in the wind. Cullen stops and turns to look, quickly spotting a small boy huddled on a stump jutting out from the thick, murky waters.

“What?”

The child’s eyes seem to flicker, like the fickle wisps that Cullen knows better than to follow in this miserable pit, but the light dims as he draws near. Instead, the child lowers his head, hair obscuring his eyes as he frowns to himself. “You are not here. No. You are not meant to _be_ here.”

“Well, I’m afraid I _am_ a bit lost.” Cullen sighs.

“You must be. This place is not, until it is.”

“Is what?”

“Needed.”

“Need what?”

“Punishment.” The boy spits out the word like a venomous dart, tilting his head up to look him directly in the eye. The effect is...unnerving.

For a moment, Cullen is still. He takes a good look at the boy—skinny limbs, thin hair, and sunken cheeks—and he feels an empty hollow in his belly, deeper and colder than this dreary swamp.

All alone.

“Where are your parents, boy?”

“I don’t have one of those.” The boy blinks up at him as if this is perfectly normal. Another moment of silence passes, and Cullen hears the boy’s stomach growl, watches as he bites at his lip and gnashes his teeth.

Cullen scratches at his head, smearing a bit of swamp muck in his hair and grimacing. “Well, who in the world left you _here?_ ”

More blinking. “Me? I think...but maybe not me...I’m hungry.”

“I heard. Whatever I had on me is doubtless inedible now, but...if you come with me, I’m sure we can find _something_.”

Another low, rattling gurgle pitches from the boy’s stomach, and Cullen is a bit too glowing and a bit too naive to wait for a proper response. Instead, he scoops the boy up into his arms—finding him far too light a burden—and settles him against his chest, careful to keep him clear of the dirty water.

“My name is Cullen,” he says, and sets off into the murk. _Slurk skwsh slurk skwsh slurk skwsh._

“Cuh.” The boy repeats. “It’s a good sound. I like it. That’s good. I’m ‘Cole.’”

Eventually, the ground solidifies, and the muck gives way; and Cullen keeps walking determinedly in the direction his heart _sincerely hopes_ is home. He settles the boy a bit more comfortably and relaxes into the feeling of the boy cuddling against his neck.

He’s spent enough time carrying his brother’s children about.

Then again, none of them ever stare, fixated upon the tempting pulse of his arterial vein.

_One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand...grgle…_

-

All the way back to the Grand Tree, he keeps the boy pressed close, and thinks very little of the nipping at his skin. He’s likely been deprived of attention for far too long, the poor thing, and so Cullen shields him as much as he can on his way to his husband’s study.

Cullen drips all sorts of muck along the halls. He supposes he’ll owe Josephine an apology, but that will come later, with a clean set of clothes and a proper bath for the both of them.

“Cole,” he says gently, drawing the boy’s attention away from his shoulder. “How would you like to meet someone very special?”

 For a moment, the boy’s eyes lose focus, and an odd little smile stretches his mouth. “The open palm and the empty bed. You think he will be angry, but it will not be at you…. Will he feed me?”

“I happen to know for a fact he hoards little snacks in that desk of his. Do you like cakes?”

“I don’t know,” Cole says, looking truly upset for the first time in their short acquaintance. And he was found in a _swamp._ “What is ‘cake’?”

For a moment, Cullen wonders if it’s truly appropriate that he’s more hurt by a lack of _cake_ than a lack of proper guardians.

“If you must harass me, Josephine, then you can at least get it over with. I’ve no burning preferences for a celebration which my tit of a husband may or _may not_ attend.” Dorian’s voice is muffled, but still chilling enough to send a shiver down Cullen’s spine.

“Special!” Cole chirps, as if to remind Cullen that he signed up for this, thank you very much, and so he takes a steadying breath and opens the door.

“I know I’ve got very little ground to stand on, but could we perhaps have a few of those little purple things at the party?”

“You _ass!”_ Dorian surges to his feet so quickly that his chair crashes to the ground and makes a beeline for him. “You—” He stops short. “Are...filthy.”

“Yeah. About that…”

“With a child?”

“That’s the thing—”

“Is this— _really._ We need to have a talk about giving living entities as _gifts_ , Cullen. Especially when...Maker, haven’t your people ever heard of chocolates? Little artworks? _Sex coupons?_ ”

Cullen flushes an immediate, violent red and shifts as if to cover Cole’s ears. He shifts the boy off of his shoulder and into the crook of his opposite arm, and that’s when the air goes cold.

“What is that, Cullen?”

“What is...oh. These?” He cranes his neck to get a glimpse at the teeth marks littering his neck and shoulder. “He’s been...alone for a long time, I think. He hasn’t got any parents.”

“No.” Dorian says, expression suddenly blank. “I don’t suppose he has.”

“So I thought…”

“Maker save us from your good intentions.”

Cullen frowns and presses on. “I _thought_ we might take him in.”

“Take him where?” Cole says, suddenly hopeful. “Is there food there? In?”

“Ah. That, yes. Could he have one of your little cakes, do you suppose? I know it’s meant to be a secret stash, but I worry…”

“He can have all the cakes he likes.” Dorian smiles, though it seems oddly false. “Why don’t you go wash up first, and we’ll arrange something for our young friend?”

Cullen shifts uncomfortably, suddenly much more confused at this awkward reception. Is Dorian particularly fond of this set of robes?

Usually, he doesn’t mind all of the sweat and dirt. Though...swamp muck is a unique blend of itchy, sticking horror. He can’t fault his husband, and so he is very careful as he deposits Cole in Dorian’s waiting arms.

“Behave, both of you.” He smiles and shuts the door behind him.

-

Cullen does not hear his husband’s sibilant hiss as he thuds down the grand hallways toward the bathing chamber. Does not hear the soft growling rattle move from Cole’s belly to his throat, or the whispers that follow the boy, a warning to those trained to hear it.

Cullen can’t hear, but Dorian can.

“I’ll give you all the cakes you like, little beast, but I’ll know your intentions first.”

And like that, the growling stops. “I don’t have any, I don’t think. Only I’m hungry. But he wasn’t bad, so we couldn’t eat him. They’re afraid, but he isn’t.”

“Fear,” Dorian says.

“Not anymore.”

“He isn’t—”

“We aren’t. Not anymore. Or we _are_ , but not the same. What is cake?”

Dorian, self-professed hedonist, is even more upset than his husband was. “Well, we’ve found ourselves in another fine mess, but I suppose we needn’t all suffer.”

“He’s very sorry, if it helps. The bed is empty, and the ground is hard, and no one is happy. But now _everyone_ is happy. Except that you’re mad. What is cake?”

“You really are a very convincing child, you know?”

“Yes!” Cole smiles with very sharp teeth. “Children are very frightening.”

A pause, and then—

“What is cake?”

-

Cullen comes back to a rather odd sight.

That is, Dorian huddled up with Cole in a pile of blankets by the fireplace, watching with a morbid sort of fascination as the boy puts away enough sugary sweets to last the winter.

He goes to join them, expecting some sort of conversation to begin, but no. Dorian keeps staring, and Cole keeps stuffing, and after a while the process becomes hypnotic. It’s as if the boy doesn’t need to _breathe._

When Cole finally finishes his little bout of gluttony, he begins to clean himself with his tongue, scouring his fingers and palms and scooping one last bit of frosting from his cheek. There are a few moments of fascinated silence and then, “Cake is nice. I like it.”

“Well, good.” Cullen laughs. “I was worried for a moment.”

“I’m _still_ worried. Where did he _put_ it all?”

Cole—for the first time, perhaps in their acquaintance, perhaps _ever_ —giggles, and it’s as if Cullen’s heart lights up from the inside, his skin casting that familiar reassuring glow.

Beside him, Dorian shifts uncomfortably, and then lets out a deep, tired sigh.

As if to say, _Ah. This again._

But instead of some biting remark, he reaches out a long-fingered hand and gently strokes Cole’s hair. “All right,” he says. “All right.”

-

There are no rooms prepared for the child, and even with Dorian’s considerable power and uncanny ability to get his staff to move mountains at an hour’s notice, Cullen still gets the brilliant idea to have the boy sleep with them for the night.

His first night back, and he wants to spend it with a small person between them. It seems ironically fitting, as far as Dorian’s life goes.

But he lays down and tries not to show—well, any _skin_ , because Cole looks rather like a child, but no fear, either.

Cullen falls quickly to a deep, contented sleep, safe and warm with an arm wrapped over them both. His own little family, tied up in shadows and ribbon and more teeth than he knows.

“He believes in you, you know.” Dorian whispers in the quiet.

“Yes. I saw it.”

“And so you have to be better.”

“How?”

“You can’t...eat people, anymore. No matter how hungry you are.”

“...Cake?”

“You can have as much cake as you like, you little monster.” He can’t keep himself from chuckling a bit, or from the little swell of _feeling_ in his chest. Not fear. Fear would be easier.

“He was very sad, when I didn’t have any parents.”

“He’s kind that way, yes.”

“But I still don’t and he is not sad.”

“That’s because you _do_. That’s us, you see. Not that he _asked_ or anything.”

“Oh,” Cole says, blinking thoughtfully. Then, with far more energy: “Oh! I like that. It’s nice.”

His smile is wide and sharp and ridiculous, and Dorian feels another, bigger swell of emotion in his chest.

His idiot husband has managed to give him a _child_ for their anniversary. Or something remarkably like one, anyway, and—

And _oh._

Oh, King Bernard was going to have a _fit._

-

Life beyond the Hollow Veil is not quite so easy for Cole to figure out in all areas. Cake and cats, he knows he likes—though where Cole keeps _finding_ so many cats, Cullen can’t quite understand.

That is, until he sees Dorian _making_ them out of bits of shadow and herb and setting them loose about the grounds.  

Beyond this indulgence, however, Dorian seems awfully stern to the boy. He lectures him often, though Cullen has no idea upon which subjects. He seems...uncertain. Cullen hopes that his heart will soften soon.

For now, Cullen spoils Cole where he can, picking him up when he asks and teaching him little games. He’s too shy, it seems, to play with the other children around Tenebris, and often falls asleep while Cullen carries him around the Grand Tree or the lake pavilion.

-

“It is strange.” Cole says one morning, frowning out at the lifting fog as Dorian whistles up a breeze to take it away. “I want to put my mouth on your cheek, but I do not want to bite.”

Dorian takes a deep breath, but stays very still, looking out into the calm dark. “I’m still a bit too nervous for that. But Cullen—” he says, then shakes his head, “Your _father_ would like that very much.”

“Thank you,” Cole says, and presses his cheek against Dorian’s hip. Affection, he’s learning very quickly, comes as easy as breathing.

-

Dorian has almost begun to forget exactly what it is that Cole _is_ and is _not_ when he comes across a childhood favorite in the library. It is very late in the evening, and he cannot bring himself to sleep, so of course he drifts about like a silk-clad revenant, spooking the occasional librarian.

One of the oldest, Althorne, is bold enough to insist that he make a nuisance of himself elsewhere, and so he takes the book and looks very carefully at the cover.

The tome is large and heavy, decorated in gold and warm, it seems, solely from all of the love accumulated over the pages. A comfort in his childhood, he remembers, and perhaps a comfort to a child now.

But it’s far too late at night for that.

So he decides to go and check on the boy, acclimate himself to the idea of _his son,_ soft and sweet in his sleep, and to leave the book as a little gift perhaps. Just on the bedside table.

And perhaps...perhaps a wisp, to comfort him, if he should wake alone in the darkness.  

He can be quiet.

But quiet doesn’t really matter, because Cole is not asleep.

Instead, he sits upright, eyes wide and nearly vacant as he stares unblinking into the middle distance. Dorian’s heart nearly rabbits right out of the chest at the sound of the boy-beast’s tuneless humming.

It takes a moment before Dorian notices the whispers, not so much in his ears as underneath his skin and sinking into the walls.

He is afraid.

Instinct tells him to slip out and pretend he hasn’t seen a thing. He doesn’t want Cole to see him, to know his fear. He does not want to think of what it will mean if the boy feeds upon it. That it will violate this unspoken trust, and that he is not what Dorian had secretly begun to hope for.

Cole has been staying in this room for over a _month,_ and he has not slept for a single moment of it. Just sat here, staring into...Dorian doesn’t want to know what the boy is looking at.

But when he tries to slip away, Cole turns his head to look at him, eyes still unblinking. The humming stops, but the whispers continue, an ominous susurration in the space between.

"I am not...afraid. It was dark there, too. But I wouldn’t mind the light, now.”

Dorian’s breath is a shivering noise in the darkness.

“Those wisps play tricks, but not yours, because you wouldn’t. Would you? You want to me to have ‘sweet dreams.’” Cole frowns, and reaches still-bony fingers to fuss at the covers. “But how?”

And, against his own better judgement, Dorian steps further into the room.

He sits down on the side of the bed, and reaches out to brush those wispy bangs from Cole’s forehead. “You’ll need to lay down first.”

Cole hurries to obey, cocooning himself properly and nearly vibrating with excitement as he awaits his next instructions. Dorian can’t help but chuckle a bit, flicking his fingers to summon a wisp above the bedside table.

“Next, you close your eyes.”

Cole squeezes his eyes shut until he _must_ be seeing colors, and Dorian passes gentle fingertips over them.

“Easy. Don’t hurt yourself, sweet. It’s all a matter of pretending to be asleep until you truly are.”

Cole pouts, but doesn’t open his eyes. “But for how _long?_ ”

_“Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, and the rocks melt with the sun:  
            And I will love thee still, my dear, while the sands of life shall run.”_

Quietly, Dorian sings, his voice a low rumble in time with the flickering of the light, until the words run out, and he spends a good while humming still. Eventually, he realizes that Cole has fallen asleep, and leans down to press a kiss to the boy’s forehead.

“Not so difficult at all.”

It is only after he’s shut the door and set off down the hall that Dorian realizes: the whispering has stopped.

-

This marks the beginning of a near-unstoppable quest for knowledge. Around Cullen, Cole is still awkward, but affectionate. He makes up for his ignorance in enthusiasm, and Cullen is content to pamper the poor, lost child.

Alone with Dorian, he asks countless questions, some more difficult than others, and some truly mind-boggling. When something particular eludes him with no helpful questions in sight, he pouts and sways and lilts, “How?”

And Dorian stops what he is doing to help him with a gentle pat on the head and a patient, “Let’s see.”

Sometimes, it is good, and Cole feels more like a proper child. He laughs and breathes, “See? See? It’s good.”

But others, things are not so easy, and he bites at his lips and fingers with sharp, sharp teeth, and he bleeds until Dorian catches his hands and blots stinging medicines onto the cuts. “No more,” he says. “Try again. Slower.”

-

The wisp bobs upon the nightstand, and Cole, without realizing quite what he is doing, begins to make wishes before he pretends himself to sleep.

He learns to be afraid of the dark, not because of the unknown, but because of the absence of others.

He is more real than he yet understands.

More loved, and less hungry.

-

And then Cullen has to leave on another damned quest. Dorian rails and rants for an hour or more while Cole watches, stricken upon the window seat.

He hasn’t grasped the ‘welcome home’ to ‘goodbye’ quite yet, and his little world is beginning to unravel around him. He knows that Cullen, who is father, has gone and that Dorian, who might be father also maybe, is very unhappy.

Dorian wonders if he is not enough, and if this business with Bernard could not be handled by someone less prone to kidnapping and injury, and _oh why won’t he stay?_

He wonders _is it me?_

And Cole hears.

Cole digs his little claws into his little palms, and he wishes as hard as he can without knowing what a wish _is,_ but Cullen does not reappear. He does not sweep Dorian into a laughing embrace or offer Cole a sugary treat.

Cole cannot see him or hear him, and this must mean he is nowhere.

So he presses his cheek to Dorian’s hip, and he does not howl, only waits until Dorian picks him up and cradles him to his chest. He watches the arterial vein in Dorian’s throat.

_One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand...grgle…_

-

Cullen finds them—when he comes _back_ to find them—in his favorite chair in Dorian’s study, wrapped around each other in a way that would be heartwarming if it didn’t make him feel so guilty.

With every passing day, he came closer to punching his Honorable Father in the nose, but now he’s home, and...and Cole is awake. He’s awake, and staring at Cullen as if he’s hurt him.

“Dorian was lonely.”

“I know, love.”

“That’s what it’s called. Lonely. Only it feels big and empty and teeth. Teeth teeth teeth.”

Cullen moves closer, holds out his arms to take Cole for a bit, apologize as best he can. He hates seeing the boy so sad. But instead of crawling into his father’s hold, the boy waits until his arm is outstretched, and he takes the forearm and lets his teeth sink in deep, and he _stays._

Like this he stays, and no one goes.

No one moves.

Dorian sleeps, and Cullen is here and nowhere else. Cole still doesn’t understand ‘welcome home’.

And Cullen sinks down to the ground by his comfortable chair, and he lets Cole bite. He thinks _I deserve this_ , but he doesn’t understand what ‘this’ is, and the teeth press deeper still.

When people are _guilty_ they _disappear._

This is the truth, mired down in swamp water, bones littering the mud beneath.

But then there are warm fingers pressing at the hinges of his jaw until he works his teeth free. There’s a rumbling voice telling him that it’s all right. There’s the fleshy pad of a thumb against the razor point of his canine, and Dorian’s blood is in his mouth.

For the very first time, Cole begins to cry.

Above his head, Dorian presses a soft kiss to the corner of Cullen’s lips and sighs.

“I suppose there’s a story here.”

“There’s a story everywhere, _amatus._ But this one is uniquely you.”

“How’s that?” Cullen says, hissing as he pokes at one of the bleeding puncture marks.

Dorian sets a hand over his, and lets a cooling sensation spill from his skin. “Like always, you took a dangerous thing and made it love you.”

“I don’t know about dangerous.” Cullen laughs.

“Darling, he is literally a man-eating spirit meant to inspire fear and punish the wicked.”

“I was talking about _you._ ”

He _does_ deserve the smack he gets for that one.

-

They can hear the music rising up from underground before they come to the mouth of the passage. It’s been too long since Dorian and Cullen have visited their friends in the thaig, and now they’ve another little visitor to keep away from the flowing spirits and the clumsy feet of the drunken revelers.

It’s a pleasant surprise to find that Varric, too, has come for a visit. His eyes light up as soon as they settle on Cole. The reaction seems to be fairly common, now that he’s learned a proper glamour for those impressive teeth of his.

“Look at you, kid. Never thought the big bad Edelking would have a little pixie boy of his own.”

“Not a pixie,” Cole chirps. “What is ‘Edelking?’”

Maevaris laughs, and plucks him up to settle him onto the couch between herself and Varric. “Oh, now _that_ is a question, isn’t it?”

“Now you’ve done it.” Dorian grins. “They won’t let you go until you’ve heard of the whole affair.”

Mae rolls her eyes and flicks her wrist dismissively, as if telling two unruly children—and not a pair of grown royals—to piss off and join the dancing. They obey, of course, because who are they to deny an opportunity to spin about all starry-eyed and set the romantics to their sighing.

“Varric is a great storyteller, and a tidy guest, so I _suppose_ we can let him take this one.” She smiles, slow and teasing.

Thorold laughs and settles in to listen once they’ve settled it amongst themselves. Cole, who is far less accustomed to this dance and far more curious, nearly bounces in place between the two narrators.

“You were _there_ for some of it,” Varric drawls.

“As were you.”

“The later bit. With nowhere _near_ as much drama. Just the fluff stuff.”

 _Fluff stuff_ , Cole thinks, is rather a good thing. _Rabbits are fluff stuff._

“And you won’t interrupt me?”

“Would I do that to _you?_ ”

Thorold’s laugh is louder this time. It’s nice. Cole likes it a lot.

-

All right, then. How would you like to hear a story?

_Very much! What is it about?_

**Love. And two idiots who fall right into it.**

Varric.

**Sorry, sorry.**

Royal. You forgot that they’re **royal** idiots.

_Like me!_

Well, I…

**Yeah, sweetheart. A lot like you.**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told y'all I knew who the narrators were. XD

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up on tumblr at anabundanceofstilinskis.
> 
> I have a mighty need for an illustration of the demon flower discussion.


End file.
